


Filthy Angel Whore

by strangeandcharm



Series: Everything Is Awesome [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Castiel (Supernatural) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Castiel (Supernatural) Whump, Consent Issues, Dark, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Master/Slave, Porn, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slow Build Castiel/Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-24 13:48:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 52,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17705414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeandcharm/pseuds/strangeandcharm
Summary: Dean and Sam discover some disturbing news about someone they thought long vanished: Castiel left them, yes, but it wasn’t through choice. Now they’ve found him again, but his mind has broken. Will he ever be the same? And how does what happened during those missing years affect how Dean feels for him?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while, but I'm back! This is set five years after a non-specific season of the show (probably post season ten, though I’ve kept it intentionally vague). Sort of AU, thanks to that, but canon in every other way.  
> This also shamelessly reuses elements from other fics I’ve written, but hey, I never said I wasn’t a one-trick pony. Also, happy 300th episode!
> 
> **Please note: this fic is very dark at times and could be triggering (see tags).**

~ ~ ~

“I know where your angel is.”

After five years, six words. It was as though everything stopped: seconds, minutes, hours. All Dean could think about were those six words. 

_I know where your angel is._

“What angel?” he asked, even as every muscle in his body clenched. Somewhere deep down, some subconscious, primal part of him knew.

The demon did what demons always did in this kind of situation: assessed the two humans standing before her to see how she could play this to her advantage. “Ah. So you didn’t know.” She smiled and clenched her fists, tugging on the cuffs. “I wasn’t sure if you did. This is interesting.”

Dean lowered his voice. “What... _angel?_ ” he growled, looming over her chair. He felt Sam tensing beside him, moving the angel blade from one hand to the other. 

“Castiel,” the demon replied, pausing for a moment to lick blood off her lips. “The only angel left on Earth. Come on, you must have known he’s still here! As if they’d let him back in Heaven after all the things he did over the years. Even though there’s just a skeleton crew up there these days, I hear they won’t forgive him.” She looked from Dean to Sam, raising her eyebrows. “So you really didn’t know, huh? I guess that explains why you never rescued him. I assumed if you’d known you’d have done something about it, as I’ve heard how fond you are of your feathery friend. And given his current predicament... well, you wouldn’t have left him there if you gave a damn about him.”

“What do you mean by ‘rescue’? Where is he?” Sam asked, but of course the demon just laughed. She rattled her cuffs and tilted her head calculatingly, looking him up and down. 

“And what do I get for telling you?” she said.

“You get a quick death,” Dean said. “That’s more than you deserve for what you did in that school.”

The demon sighed. “Really? That’s all you got? After he’s been gone all these years? Wow, I’m glad I’m not _your_ friend if that’s how hard you’d fight for me.”

“It’s been five years since the angels left,” Sam said. “Five years since we saw Cas. It’s kinda convenient that you suddenly know where he is. I call bullshit.”

He lifted the angel blade in his hand and the demon paled, her eyes narrowing. “How about we do a deal?” she said, voice a little shaky now. “I tell you some of what I know. You poke around, see what you can dig up to prove I’m not lying. Then I can give you the location. And if that hits the spot, so to speak, you let me go.”

“We’re not letting you go,” Sam said. “You killed five first-graders. Nobody gets an ‘out’ for that, not with us. My brother’s right: you’ll get a quick death. That’s it. Put up or shut up.”

Dean held his breath, feeling his heart race. If this was true... if Castiel was still on Earth, after all this time... All those years, not knowing where he’d vanished to, all that time wondering if he was okay; not to mention the pain of thinking that perhaps, just perhaps, Cas had left without saying goodbye because he’d had enough of dealing with him...

But that wasn’t Cas, not the one Dean knew, and surely there had to be another reason why he’d just disappeared. Had someone captured him? They’d traced his phone, done spells to track him, prayed – nothing. And it had been _so long_. Five years. Five long, empty years. Dean had missed him, and it had been hard to move on; they’d had so much history together. 

For years, he’d thought that Castiel would come back, because he always did. Even death hadn’t stopped him. 

But he hadn’t.

The demon seemed to make her decision. “There’s a demon named Sitchwell, real skeevy type. He’s based out of an old orphanage in Jefferson City. You find him, you ask him about the angel. Then you come back here and I’ll tell you some more.”

“Why should we ask you when we can just get him to tell us?” Sam asked, frowning.

“Because they’ve moved him since Sitchwell saw him, dumbass. They move him a lot. I happen to know where he was two weeks ago, and you probably have another week before they move him again. So you’d probably better haul some ass before it’s too late. And I want your guarantee that I’ll get a quick death for this.” She twisted one of her wrists in the cuffs, rattling them on the chair. “I’ve had enough of torture. It’s much more fun to give than to receive.”

Dean thought back to the school and the scene that had awaited them that morning. He still felt nauseous, and abruptly found himself wishing that he could make this creature suffer, long and hard and dreadful.

But now they needed her. And after five years, Castiel needed him. 

 

* * *

 

There was only one abandoned orphanage in Jefferson City, and there was only one demon living inside it – if you could call it living. Sitchwell was slumped in a grotty armchair in a just-as-grotty room, a needle in his arm and a weary, twisted smile on his face. He barely even twitched when the Winchesters arrived. He seemed too far gone to care.

“Demon junkie, huh?” Dean grunted, lowering his gun as he studied the wretched man in front of him. Sitchwell looked like a middle-aged schoolteacher who’d gone rogue. “Well, don’t that beat all. How much of that stuff does he have to take to actually get high, anyway?”

Sam wrinkled his nose as he glanced around the room. He nodded at a table that was piled high with mounds of hard, square bags. “That looks like his stash,” he observed, and whistled. “There must be thousands of dollars’ worth of heroin here.”

“One-point-two million, to be exact,” said the demon. 

In a flash, both Winchesters had their guns trained on him again, but Sitchwell didn’t move. He simply opened his eyes – which moved from jet black to brown, glazed and glassy, and didn’t seem to be focusing on either of them. 

“We’ve got some questions for you,” said Sam. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Sitchwell grinned, too slowly for it to seem right. “No, I ain’t. You caught me. I’m gone. Ridin’ the dragon, or whatever they call it. Drugs are where it’s at, fellas. They’re the only fuckin’ thing that make me feel alive seven hundred years after I died. All them pretty colors and happy tunes, heh.” 

Dean scowled at him. “What are you, some kind of demonic Pablo Escobar? Or just a user?”

The demon sighed. “Bit o’ both, young man, bit o’ both. Drugs... you humans love them, and we love to give them to you. Every time a batch hits the streets we get to revel in all the pain, misery and death we could ever want to warm our cold, dead hearts. I got mules comin’ in from Colombia every day and if they get caught, my demons just cut and run and leave ’em. It’s neat ‘n’ tidy, just perfect.”

He sniffed, raising a hand slowly to scratch his nose. “There was a time when we weren’t allowed to sample the merchandise, but all bets are off because the King of Hell doesn’t care. And I like it. I really do like it. Drugs are _good._ ”

Dean silently met his brother’s eyes, raising his eyebrows. This wasn’t what they were expecting at all. 

“So you guys are hunters, eh?” asked the demon vaguely. “Twenty minutes ago and I would’ve been ready to fight you, but now... everything’s a tad hazy. I can’t even bring myself to care.”

“We need to know about the angel,” Sam said.

Sitchwell’s vacant expression didn’t change. “The what?” 

“The angel. We know you saw him.” Sam took a step forward, and Dean joined him, tightening his grip on the handle of his gun, gritting his teeth.

“The angel... the angel...” The demon frowned, his eyes flickering, and for a moment Dean thought he’d passed out. And then, suddenly, they snapped open again. “Oh, _him._ ” He giggled irrationally, peering up at them through bloodshot eyes. “Whaddya need to know?”

“Who has him?” Dean snapped. 

“Oh, everybody,” Sitchwell snorted. “A revolving door. Loads of ’em. He’s popular, always busy. I’ve used him twice now, but he ain’t round this way very often. They use my stash sometimes – I’m known for it these days, an all-you-can-eat-buffet by needle. But it’s all very hush-hush, and I can’t tell _hunters_ anything, can I? It’s naughty.”

Dean tried to process the confusing jumble of words. “What do you mean, ‘use him’?” he asked, as his brain pictured Castiel working for demons in some capacity. None of this made sense, and this strange, doped-up demon was seriously unnerving him.

Sitchwell smiled again, slow and creepy. “Well, look at this. You don’t know much, do ya? You’ve come looking for him but you don’t know squat. This is priceless.”

Sam took a step forward, firmly and deliberately aiming the barrel of his gun straight at the demon’s forehead. “These bullets have Devil’s traps carved on them,” he declared, his voice deep and dangerous. “Tell us what you know or you won’t be moving for a long, long time.”

The demon’s eyes widened and, for the first time, his gaze seemed to clear. “You’re the Winchesters,” he hissed. “No wonder you’re lookin’ for him. He’s your special pal.”

“What do you _know?_ ” snapped Dean. The suspense was starting to give him a headache.

Sitchwell drew in a deep breath, held it, and then let it out. “Let’s see. Your angel friend – what’s his name again? Kestrel? Kesteel?” He waited for a response, which never came, then continued. “He’s the star attraction in a very special rodeo. _Very_ special. We ride him all day and all night and he bucks and leaps and tries to shake us off, but we just keep on comin’. He’s been doin’ it so long now that he’s finally broken like a whupped steer. Don’t even fight no more. Just lets us saddle up and _yeehaw!_ ” 

He laughed, throwing his head back against the chair. “All this time and you didn’t know? You schmucks. He’s even online, you can watch him fuck whenever you feel like it. Ain’t technology marvelous?”

The demon said something else, but Dean didn’t hear it. A bolt of freezing lightning shot down his spine, leaving a cold sweat in its wake. His arm wobbled and his gun lowered to the floor without him even being aware of it. Sam didn’t flinch beside him, but he felt his brother’s eyes on him as he reeled from the shock. 

Castiel and... and... _demons_? It couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t.

“You’re lying,” Dean managed to spit, after a few deep breaths.

Sitchwell was looking more awake by the second – whatever he’d injected himself with before the brothers had arrived must be leaving his system. His eyes turned black and he grinned at Dean in delight, leaning forward. “Yeah, you’d like to think he’s still a prissy little angel virgin, wouldn’t you? But I can tell you from experience that he’s hot and tight like a ten-year-old. Best I ever had, and there’s no denyin’ it. First time, he tried to fight, and that got my blood pumpin’ like you have no idea, but the second time he was willin’ and able. And I can tell you, it felt so–”

Dean smacked him round the face with his gun, desperate to make him stop talking. The demon fell from the chair and landed in a heap on the concrete floor. “You shut your mouth!” he shouted. “It’s not true! You’re lying!”

“Dean...”

He was so furious he almost held the gun up to his brother. “He’s lying, Sam. There’s no way that’s true. He’s lying. Cas would never let that happen, none of this is true. This guy’s playing us. It’s not true.”

Sam shook his head, and when he spoke, it was slowly and carefully. “I don’t want it to be true either, Dean, but that demon back at the bunker knew something, and now this guy says this... I think he’s out there, and this could be... I mean...” He looked up at the ceiling helplessly, before looking down at the floor. “Poor Cas,” he murmured.

“ _No,_ ” spat Dean; he was suddenly so angry it felt as though the blood was boiling in his veins. “I don’t believe it. He’s an angel. Demons couldn’t overpower him and hold him for so long.”

“Spells have come a long way since the angels first started poppin’ up on Earth a few years back,” Sitchwell said brightly, from the floor. He wiped blood from his nose. “From what I hear, he weren’t easy to catch, but he’s easy to keep contained. And we can do what we want to him – he always heals. Over and over again, on and on... he’s an old hand at this now. Course, I reckon he’ll have forgotten you guys now – he went crazy after a few years. Don’t even know his own name. But he sure does fuck well. Wanna see?”

“Wh... what?” Dean gasped, overwhelmed. The demon pointed at a laptop on a nearby table, and Dean stared at it blankly. He was having trouble processing; this was too much. _Five years._ Castiel had been in the hands of demons that entire time. _Five years._ This couldn’t be true, because that was just... it wasn’t...

Sam reached across and picked up the laptop, offering it to Dean one-handed, keeping the gun trained on the demon on the floor. “Here,” he said, nudging his brother with it. Dean took it, barely even able to get his fingers to work.

“Go to my bookmarks,” said Sitchwell. “Look for ‘Filthy Angel Whore’. It’s on the dark web, you’d never find it without someone giving ya the link first. Took me a while to get it, they only give it to demons they really trust. Plus it was my reward for gettin’ them all the drugs they wanted. They really know how to party.”

“Who’s _they_?” asked Sam.

“The ones who have him,” Sitchwell said calmly. “Couple o’ ordinary demons. They’re doin’ quite well from this deal – all the money, drugs, even souls that they want. People’ll pay whatever they want for a night with their little toy. Not just demons, either. I’ve heard a few vamps and other beasties have had their wicked way with your friend.”

Dean had opened the laptop, but his hands were shaking too much to use the trackpad. Sam watched him for a few moments, then took the computer. “Here, keep an eye on him,” he said, indicating the demon. “I’ll find it.”

Dean took a step back and pointed his gun at their prisoner. Sitchwell stared up at him in amusement, noting how the barrel was shaking, and Dean had to concentrate to keep it still. 

“Here,” said Sam, frowning at the screen as it lit up his face. “I think... oh god...”

Dean looked at the screen. It was a porn site – there was no mistaking the basic design – with the words ‘Filthy Angel Whore’ written across the top of it. A dozen video thumbnails showed the same scene: an aerial, black-and-white view of a small room with no windows and a bed in it. The bed had a large, intricate headboard made of twisted metal, and chains hung off it in loops. Attached to the chains by his wrists and a band around his neck was a naked man. He had pale white skin and short, dark hair. The thumbnails were all moving, previewing the action you’d get if you clicked on them, and in every single one the naked man was interacting with another man in some way. 

Dean only looked for a few seconds, but some of the images burned into his brain regardless. It wasn’t just sex, although that was horrifying enough. One clip showed the naked man being beaten. Another showed someone carving something onto his chest. And it went on. And on. And... 

It was Castiel. Even as a tiny, black-and-white thumbnail, it was clearly Castiel.

“Hot and tight,” sang Sitchwell. “So fuckin’ tight, boys, you have no idea.”

“Where is he?” Dean asked, his voice blank. 

“Not a clue. They move him all the time.”

Dean pulled out his knife and stabbed the demon through the heart, twisting the blade cruelly as he watched the life flare from its eyes. 

 

* * *

 

The drive back to the bunker was silent. The laptop sat on Sam’s knees the whole way, and Dean kept flicking glances over to it as he drove. He wanted to throw it from the window, drive over it, smash it, _atomize_ it. Sam wouldn’t let him; if the woman they had chained up in the bunker couldn’t help them find Castiel, the site could contain clues. It was a good point, but Dean wasn’t thinking logically right now.

He drove as though he wanted to kill something, and Sam said nothing. He just held on tighter.

 

* * *

 

“Where is he?”

Sam demanded the answer before Dean did, beating him into the dungeon by a few seconds. Dean watched as his brother stalked over to the demon and grabbed her by the chin, shaking her head roughly. “ _Tell us where he is!_ ”

The demon smiled, her beetle-black eyes twinkling. “I see you heard all about your friend’s little hobby, then. That must have come as a nice surprise to you. Did you give Sitchwell my regards?”

“He died faster than he deserved,” Dean snapped. “How slowly do you want to die? I can make it fast if you tell us where Castiel is being held.”

“Where is he being held? By his cock, usually, in most of the videos I’ve watched. He’s a filthy angel whore. Legendarily so, in fact.”

Dean shoved Sam to one side and punched her. It came out of him like a reflex: he couldn’t stop himself, and when pain flared across his knuckles he almost enjoyed it. 

For a moment, the demon grimaced in pain, but then she spat blood on the floor and grinned up at him. “Feel better now?”

“You could’ve just showed us the site to prove you know where Cas was,” Sam said, frowning. “Why did you send us after Sitchwell instead?”

“Wanted him dead,” the demon shrugged. “We never exactly saw eye to eye. Apart from our taste in angels, of course. Hey, did Sitchwell mention exactly _why_ your dear Castiel is so popular?”

Dean clenched his fists, fighting down his fury. “We don’t have time for this,” he growled.

The demon stared right at Dean as she spoke. Somewhere deep inside him, he realized he’d tipped his hand to her: she’d figured out that he was the one most worried about Castiel. Not that Sam wasn’t, but Dean felt it on a different level to his brother. He always had. Castiel was his best friend – to Sam, he was just a friend. They were close, but it wasn’t the same.

“Angels and demons are opposites,” said the demon, enjoying the fact she had an audience. “They’re not supposed to interact with each other. And for good reason – angels kill us with a touch. We’re not strong enough to go up against them. They’re pure light and love; we’re pure darkness and hate. We should cancel each other out.”

“Is there a point to this?” Dean snapped.

“Sex,” she replied, flatly. “It’s the universe’s biggest primal force. You humans screw and fall in love and have children. You feel bliss. Angels don’t fuck at all, they’re too pure for that, and they already exist in bliss. Us demons? We fuck all the time, but it’s nowhere near as good. We don’t feel the bliss you guys can feel. We feel pleasure, but it’s on a lower, less satisfying level. And so it was thus, for all of time. And then, quite recently, in fact, someone discovered that when you fuck an angel in certain controlled circumstances, it’s...” She paused, closing her eyes dramatically. “Mind-blowing. Orgasmic.” She opened them again, smiling serenely. “Seriously, fellas, you have no idea. Angelic energy mixing with demon energy is, like, the hottest drug you can find. So, long story short: we fuck Castiel, we feel incredible. He’s the hottest ticket in town, and for good reason.”

Dean swallowed hard, forcing himself to say what he was thinking out loud. “Have you fucked him?” he asked, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

The demon shrugged. “Once or twice. He’s expensive. He’s the headliner of a very exclusive whorehouse, and it costs a lot to get in, but they let you have free rein when you do.” She leaned forward, conspiratorially. “I’ve fucked him in this body and in a man’s. Wanted to see what it was like. And I’m telling you, the first time was better, because he tried to fight me. I can’t even _begin_ to explain what a turn-on that is to a demon.”

“Where is he?” Sam said before she could elaborate, pushing her back in her chair. Dean was relieved; he had to turn away, breathing heavily, trying to collect his thoughts. 

“A quick death,” the demon said. “I tell you, you kill me quick. You promised.”

“We will,” said Sam, even as Dean was contemplating torturing the demon until the end of time. “Once we have him back.”

She looked into Sam’s eyes for a long moment, then seemed convinced. “Pleasant Valley, Wichita Falls. Can’t remember the address but if you show me a map, I can point to it. He’s there, and they’re not worried about anybody trying to rescue him after so many years, so he’s not even well-guarded. There’ll be five demons, tops. Plus any clients. Be warned that he doesn’t always do one-to-ones – sometimes there are groups.”

“ _Fuck,_ ” Dean muttered, feeling a shiver course through him. 

“That’s what they do, yes,” said the demon sweetly, smiling at him. “Don’t expect him to remember you, by the way. He lost his marbles big time. I’m not sure if you’ll be able to gather them up and pour them back into that pretty little bag of his, or if the important ones have rolled away under the sofa forever.”

Dean looked away again, controlling his breathing. As he did so, Sam – who was admirably calm, or at least doing a good job of pretending – pulled out his phone and hit the screen a few times. “Here,” he said, holding it out to the demon. “Point at the address.”

“I’ll meet you by the car,” said Dean, leaving them to it.

He packed every item that could possibly hurt a demon and placed it in the trunk. Then, while Sam was collecting his own stuff, he took the opportunity to punch the wall in his bedroom, narrowly avoiding breaking his hand.

It wasn’t particularly clever, but it made him feel better anyway.

 

* * *

 

It was an ordinary house with a perfectly striped lawn and a sprinkler whisking water droplets into the air next to the path. The blinds were down and a demon wearing an average-looking man sat on the porch, sunning himself, as though he was simply waiting for his kids to come home from school. Two toddlers were playing on the brown grass in front of the house next door while their mother watched them out of the window. There was nothing out of place. It was just... normal.

As the Winchesters staked out the street to gather information, they saw a car draw up and three men get out and go inside. An hour later, they came out again and climbed back into the car. They were laughing and joking. 

Their shirts were only half-buttoned up.

“We can’t wait any longer,” Dean snarled, his bruised knuckles going white on the steering wheel. “God help me, _I_ can’t wait any longer.”

“We have to wait until it’s dark or we don’t stand a chance,” Sam said, with aggravating reasonableness. “There are so many curtain-twitchers in this street that we’d have to deal with cops as well as the demons.”

Dean gritted his teeth. The demons were hiding in plain sight, knowing that the humans surrounding them afforded them protection – bodies to smoke into, if things went south. Unless the whole street was possessed, which was highly unlikely, this made life difficult for anyone attempting a rescue. Too many innocent bystanders.

“So how are we doin’ this?” Dean asked after a long, tense pause, accepting that his brother was right. 

Sam sighed. “The usual, I guess. Go in armed, fly by the seat of our pants, hope we get lucky.”

Dean stared down the street at the demon who was keeping watch. “I want them all dead, Sammy. Every goddamn one of them.”

Sam snorted, narrowing his eyes. “Right there with ya, Dean.”

Once, they’d have tried to save the hosts. These days, demons didn’t like anybody to remember being taken for a ride – Hell had too many secrets – so they killed the human the moment they entered them. Dean pondered, not for the first time, how this had made his job easier; how thankful he was for not having to feel the guilt of killing a possessed host. And then he thought about how terrible that was, to be grateful that demons were murdering humans to save him worrying about doing it.

A car drew up and a tall, burly man wearing sunglasses strode into the house. 

Another customer.

Dean closed his eyes and tried not to think about anything.

 

* * *

It was one o’clock in the morning when they made their move. The demon on the porch, who had been replaced during the evening, was taken out before he even knew they were there. The front door wasn’t locked and a second demon was quietly despatched in the kitchen, which was already sprayed floor-to-ceiling with blood; Dean surmised it belonged to the previous owners of the house. Then, guns at the ready, in perfect sync, the brothers searched the rest of the rooms before heading upstairs, wincing at every creaking step.

A demon was watching _Game Of Thrones_ in the front bedroom. He managed to let out a yell before Sam threw the demon knife at him; with perfect aim, it landed squarely in his neck. As Sam darted into the room to recover it, Dean faced a woman who came running from the bathroom, knife at the ready, cursing wildly. He had just enough time to raise his gun before she hit him full-on, sending him slamming into a wall so hard that his breath completely left his body. Then she was hitting him, her expression radiating pure murder, and he dropped his gun to instinctively protect himself as her fists rained down on his face. 

Over her shoulder he had a glimpse of Sam raising the knife and moving to stab her in the back, but an arm snaked around his neck and he was pulled backwards and off his feet before he could. Then Dean couldn’t think of anything else except stopping the demon’s fists. He couldn’t see his gun, but he suddenly realized he didn’t need it. 

Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a water pistol and squirted holy water directly into the woman’s eyes. She didn’t even scream: the pain seemed to strike her dumb long enough for Dean to pull out his angel blade and finish her off. Then he turned to help Sam, only to discover that his brother had already stabbed the demon attacking him in the ribs. 

For a second they both sat on the floor, panting. The rest of the house was silent, barring the sounds of an ancient battle coming from the television in the bedroom.

“Where is he?” Dean muttered, wiping blood from his nose and climbing to his feet. He checked, determined, but there was nobody else upstairs with them, and they’d already searched downstairs.

“This place must have a cellar,” Sam suggested, standing and wincing a little. 

Dean rubbed the back of his head where it had hit the wall. Of course. He should’ve thought of that; he was rattled. “Come on,” he hissed.

The cellar door was located behind a curtain under the stairs. Dean gently turned the handle just as Sam tugged his arm, gesturing for him to look. He followed his brother’s gaze: wires led out from under the door, trailing across the floor and into the room behind them. Sam silently followed them to a computer on the dining table, with Dean impatiently following, unsure as to why this was important. But then Sam’s face fell as he stared at the monitor, and Dean understood in an instant. 

There was a camera in the cellar, and it was filming. 

Dean took one look at the image on the screen and he was halfway down the steps to the cellar before he even knew he was moving. A demon stood at the bottom, staring up at him in shock, and Dean raised his gun and shot him without a second thought. The man crumpled and Dean kicked him out of the way, stabbing him in the heart for good measure, before turning to face the cellar.

His eyes were met with the image he’d already seen on the website, albeit in an array of different buildings: a windowless room containing the bed with the metal headboard, which a distant, practical part of him realized must travel with the demons whenever they moved locations. 

On the bed were two naked men, although neither of them were technically men. One was a vampire, blood streaking down his chin and chest. The other, bloodstained, his chains spread taut against the bed, was an angel. 

“ _Cas,_ ” Dean breathed. 

And just like that, he froze. Maybe it was the bang on the head from a few minutes ago; maybe it was shock. Either way, he couldn’t move. All he could do was stare, oblivious to the fact that he was in danger. Everything just... stopped. He was barely even conscious of the vampire unwrapping its body from its partner and launched itself at him.

The vampire was fast, but Sam was faster. A gunshot rang out from the stairs and the creature fell backwards, startled but not seriously injured. 

The sound was enough to rouse Dean from his shock. Recovering himself, he pulled a machete from the bag on his shoulder and raised it. 

“Stop!” the vampire hissed, holding its hands out defensively. A second later its head was lying in a far corner of the cellar. 

A silence fell, and suddenly both Winchesters realized that they were alone with their lost friend for the first time in five long years.

Castiel lay unmoving, staring dully at the ceiling. There were bitemarks on his arms and his skin had a blue sheen to it. There were thin, rusted iron manacles around his wrists and a similarly thin metal collar around neck, each of them coated in blood. They all had a ring that the chains had been fed into, keeping Castiel bound on the bed via the metal headboard. 

In some ways, he looked the same as he’d always looked despite the time that had passed: his hair hadn’t grown and he had no beard. But it was deeply, unnaturally unsettling to see him naked, and Dean felt bile rise in his throat as he belatedly realized that the vampire hadn’t just been drinking him when he’d arrived: he’d been _inside_ him. 

“Castiel?” Sam said softly, reaching the bottom of the stairs. Dean swallowed and leaned over the bed, wrinkling his nose at the copper smell of blood and... something else. He placed a palm on Castiel’s cheek and said his name too, willing him to react, but Castiel continued to stare blankly at nothing. 

There was a pause as the brothers processed what they were seeing, aching in sympathy and horror. And then it was as though someone had thrown a switch: they were all business.

“Someone will have called the cops after hearing those gunshots,” Sam declared. “We need to leave. Now.”

“We’re underground, hopefully they weren’t loud enough,” Dean observed, then he reached into his bag and pulled out a pair of bolt cutters. “Hold that chain.” 

Sam held one of them tight as Dean snapped it. Now that he was closer, he could see that the iron rings around Castiel’s neck and wrists had engravings on them: wards, to keep him bound. Thankfully the chains were newer and unmarked, and within a minute he’d cut through four of them so that it was possible to release Castiel from their grip. The angel didn’t move as the chains fell to the sheets beside him – although as Dean dragged one of them from the manacle on his left wrist, he did blink slowly. 

“Hold on,” Sam said, and Dean watched as he went over to a pile of folded laundry next to the washing machine behind them. For a second he felt the dissonance that came from the sight of some ordinary – probably dead – family’s life intersecting with this nightmare, but he didn’t dwell on it as Sam returned with a handful of sheets and draped them over Castiel’s pale body. Then, with Dean’s help, he gently moved him to a sitting position.

“Cas? Cas? Can you walk?” his brother asked, tapping Castiel gently on the cheek.

There was no response. Castiel’s eyes remained open and his head stayed upright, but it was obvious he wasn’t with them right now. Dean stared at him mutely, knowing that the enormity of what his friend had faced over the last few years hadn’t hit him yet. He couldn’t help but glance at the vampire’s beheaded body, naked and glistening a few feet away. _Rapist,_ he thought. _I killed a rapist._

“I think I can carry him,” Sam said. Dean opened his mouth to argue – he’d do it, he was strong enough, Castiel was his best friend – but Sam was already scooping Castiel off the bed and into a fireman’s carry. Dean found himself tucking the sheets around his bare skin in a vain attempt to restore some dignity, then he helped Sam keep his balance as they went up the stairs, listening the whole time for police sirens. 

By the time they reached the hallway it was clear nothing was happening, and so Dean made a decision. “I need a minute,” he announced, and pulled a hammer from his bag. 

“What the hell, Dean? We need to go!”

Dean didn’t answer. He stalked into the dining room and swept the monitor from the table, then hit the computer tower beside it over and over again, obliterating it. He kept pounding until the table cracked and everything tumbled to the carpet beneath, but he didn’t stop. The movements tore at the aching muscles on his back from when he’d hit the wall, but he didn’t care: he wanted this thing dead. All of it, gone. It was irrational, he knew, but that website, this computer, the feed from the basement... This was evil incarnate; this was his enemy. 

This was the only thing he had left to hit.

“ _Dean!_ We gotta go!”

He stopped, panting, and wiped sweat from his forehead. At his feet, the remains of the computer seemed to taunt him. There was nothing more he could do, and Sam was right: it was time to go.

“Yeah,” he said, and followed his brother to the car.

 

* * *

 

They needed to assess Castiel’s condition before they could even consider driving several hours back to the bunker, so they pulled up under some streetlights in a deserted and dusty car lot several miles away from Pleasant Valley. There had been no change, however: Castiel still lay unresponsive, his eyes open but vacant. His skin was warm and clammy, and when Dean felt his pulse it was racing dangerously fast. For a human, anyway.

“Shine the light on his arms,” he asked his brother, suspicious, and Sam moved the flashlight he was holding to light up Castiel’s forearms. Dean scoured them carefully, looking for pinpricks or other signs of drug use – mindful of the fact that Sitchwell had boasted about providing drugs to the demons in that house – but Castiel’s arms were clean. He was relieved for a few moments before he remembered, with a jolt, that Castiel could heal himself. The vampire’s bites were still there, though, and so Dean methodically cleaned and bandaged them while Sam handed him what he needed. Then he ran a hand over Castiel’s ribs and torso to check for other injuries, finding nothing except a small line of blood leaking from under the collar he wore on his neck. 

“This is gonna have to go,” he grunted, exploring it with his fingertips. It was only a centimeter wide, small enough that it wouldn’t hinder Castiel’s movements, but it was set unnaturally tight against his skin. There was definitely something supernatural about it, as it was so thin that Dean was pretty sure he could’ve snapped it himself. The fact Castiel hadn’t done that himself suggested it had some kind of power.

Sam examined the manacles on the angel’s wrists, finding more blood, but there didn’t even seem to be a seam on them to crack open, let alone a lock. “We’ll have to research the sigils,” he said, holding out his camera and snapping some pictures. “They have to come off somehow.”

“Maybe he’ll return to his old self when they’re gone,” Dean suggested.

Sam nodded slowly. “Maybe,” he said, but it sounded a little forced.

Dean backed out of the car and straightened, taking several gulps of clean Spring air to steady his nerves. Sam joined him and they stood in silence for a while, listening to the insects humming around them.

“He’s going to be okay,” Sam said eventually.

“I know,” Dean said, trying to sound convinced. He looked up at the stars, which were almost invisible under the streetlights. “He always is.”

Sam put his hands in his pockets and sighed. “It’s a miracle we found him. He could’ve been there forever. We would never have known.”

Dean frowned. “If that demon hadn’t killed those kids, he’d still be there. I’m glad something good came outta something so bad. I’ll take any silver lining I can get.”

“I’ll kill her the second we get back,” Sam said. He sounded angry, all of a sudden. 

“You promised to make it quick.”

“Yeah, I did. I didn’t say it wouldn’t hurt, though.”

 _She raped Castiel twice._ Dean thought about it, closing his eyes. Castiel had been raped over and over, for such a long time, and tortured too. Both of the demons had told them that he’d lost his mind. Dean couldn’t blame him: he would probably have lost his mind too, in that situation. In fact, he had already – with a shudder, he thought back to Hell and the moment he’d decided he couldn’t take it any more. He knew what it was like to face that endless repetition, that endless, unceasing pain and torment. Sam had suffered in Hell too. Both of them understood what it was like to go through what Castiel had gone through, in their own ways. 

But Castiel was an angel, not a human, and while his tolerance for pain was significantly higher than theirs was, his mind worked differently. Castiel had become more human over the years; that much was indisputable. But underneath, at his core, he was still a celestial entity, a creature that still blew Dean’s mind when he thought about it. And for something like that to be at the mercy of demons for so long – the very opposite of everything he was... Dean couldn’t even imagine how Castiel had dealt with it.

“Do you want me to drive?” Sam asked.

“No. Why?”

“Because you took a crack to the head back there. And I thought maybe you’d want to sit with Cas in case he wakes up.”

Dean considered it, tempted, but in the end, he knew that he needed to feel normal right now, and driving his baby was as normal as his life ever got. 

“I’m cool,” he said, and swung open the driver’s door. “If we leave now, we might be home by sun-up.”

 

* * *

They pulled into the bunker half an hour after sunrise, and Dean felt grit in his eyes and lead in his bones as they manhandled Castiel out of the car and into the building. Without a word they took him to his old room, which they’d kept intact for a return they’d eventually given up on ever happening. 

As they lay Castiel on his long-neglected bed, Dean couldn’t help but feel a twinge of joy; however bad things looked right now, one thing was certain: 

Castiel was home.

Although perhaps he wasn’t. Dean stared down at him, perplexed, and wondered if Castiel was home in any other sense. There was nothing behind his gaze; he just stared, silent and blank, blinking occasionally. On an impulse, he reached out and stroked Castiel’s hair off his forehead, but nothing happened. That familiar, much-missed face was empty of emotion. 

“I guess we need to give him time,” Sam suggested, leaning on the doorframe and watching them. “Maybe just being left alone for a day or two will be enough for him to snap out of it.”

Dean straightened, feeling his back twinge. “Yeah, you might be right. I don’t wanna leave him alone, though. I think I’ll sleep in here.”

Sam frowned. “On what? That chair? You won’t walk for a week.”

“I’m hardly gonna climb into bed with him, am I?” Dean snapped, irritated. Then he rubbed his forehead, sighing. “Sorry, man. I’m really tired.”

“Get some sleep,” Sam said, after a pause. “I’ll be back later.”

“Why, where are you going?”

Sam shot him a defiant look. “Quick death, remember?”

Dean let him go.

 

* * *

 

Castiel’s chest rose and fell. Occasionally he blinked. There was nothing else: no twitching, no frowning, no noise. He just lay on the bed, awake but not awake, and it was unsettling. Dean watched over him, feeling exhausted but too wired to sleep, wondering what to do next. 

Underneath the sheets they’d brought from the house, Castiel was still naked. That was one thing Dean could help with, and so he went to his own room and returned with one of his old gray t-shirts and a pair of black pajama bottoms. However, it wasn’t until he stopped by the bed and considered lifting the sheets that a sudden chill ran down his spine. 

_The vampire_. Dean pictured it lying on top of Castiel, covered in blood, tasting him... fucking him... all of that was still there, on Castiel’s skin. He needed to be cleaned up, washed clean of that horrendous experience and others that could still be staining his body. Even as Dean thought of it he felt anger surging through his veins and had to take a step backwards, staring up at the ceiling and biting his lip. This was too much. What had happened to his friend was too much. He couldn’t bear it; couldn’t think about it, couldn’t deal with it. 

Dropping the clothes, Dean escaped the bedroom and went to the kitchen, where he stood silent and alone for a while, clenching and unclenching his fists distractedly. When it got too much for him he ran the faucets, filled the sink and buried his head in freezing water until he couldn’t hold his breath any longer.

Then he filled a bowl with warm water, threw in some cloths and went back to the bedroom. 

 

* * *

He scrubbed Castiel as gently as he could, removing old blood and new – the iron rings on his neck and wrists seemed happy to leak small rivulets of blood in short bursts. He cleaned some parts of him without looking, trying his damnedest to keep Castiel’s privacy intact, but the angel didn’t respond in any way regardless. Eventually Dean was satisfied enough to manhandle him into clothes and lay him back on the bed, gathering up the bloodstained sheets and throwing them into the corridor to be burned later. He placed a blanket over the unmoving body and stepped back.

“There you go, Cas,” he said reassuringly, praying for a response. “I hope you feel better.”

Castiel blinked one of his slow, languid blinks, and that was all.

“You’re safe now,” Dean promised him, running a finger along one of the manacles with disgust. “We’ll get these off you and you’ll get your mojo back and it’ll be like this never happened.”

Again, nothing. 

“I really missed you, man. I’m so sorry we never got you out of that place sooner. We didn’t know. We just didn’t know.”

A blink.

Dean couldn’t help himself: he reached out and wrapped his fingers around Castiel’s right hand, feeling how solid he was, how warm, how alive. He was really here. They’d found him. They’d brought him home.

But despite that, there was no response. Castiel still wasn’t there, and Dean felt alone.

 

* * *

 

He didn’t fall fully asleep, in spite of his tiredness, and instead found himself dozing in the chair – which was, as Sam had prophesied, uncomfortable enough to make him wonder if he’d be able to walk after a few more hours of sitting in it. He lost track of time in the silence of the bunker, until finally a small noise roused him and he looked up, frowning blearily.

“Sorry,” Sam whispered, closing the door behind him. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Wasn’t really asleep,” Dean said, rubbing his eyes. “Did you deal with her?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, and when he didn’t add anything Dean decided not to press him on the subject. Instead he looked at his brother’s hands and saw that he was holding a bundle of something. 

“What’s that?”

“Clothes for Cas, but I see you got there before me.”

“Like your giganto-shirts would fit him anyway.” 

“Better than just wearing sheets.” Sam fell silent, seeming distracted, staring at Castiel thoughtfully. 

Dean looked from his brother to Castiel and back again. “What?”

“I don’t recognize any of the sigils on those manacles. I browsed some stuff during the drive but couldn’t find anything. We need to do some serious research if we’re gonna get them off him.”

Dean straightened in his chair. “You know, maybe we can do it the old-fashioned way. An angel can’t remove them himself, but maybe something as analogue as two humans and a chisel could break them.”

Sam considered it for a moment, then shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt, I suppose. Hold tight, I’ll go see what tools we have.”

Dean rose to his feet and stretched uncomfortably, feeling bruises complain all down his spine and his head ache as though he’d offended it. Scowling, he shrugged the pain to one side and leaned over the bed, gently tugging Castiel’s left arm out from under the blanket and positioning it so that the manacle was as flat as possible. He sat on the bed and peered down at the metal, squinting to make out the wards, but he couldn’t make head nor tail of them. Then he tried to manipulate Castiel’s wrist so that he could lift the metal from his skin and get a finger beneath it, but it didn’t seem to want to move. 

“Huh,” he muttered, confused. “What the hell is _with_ this thing?”

He twisted the wrist some more and was finally rewarded with a thin sliver of light between the skin and the metal. Heartened, he peered under it... and just as he realized something fundamental about what lay beneath, Sam came back. 

“Hey,” Dean hissed, glancing up at him, “there’s something seriously wrong with–”

The arm was suddenly wrenched out of his grip. “ _No!_ ” cried Castiel, his voice gravel-hoarse and terrified, and before Dean could react the angel had flung himself sideways off the mattress. He hit the nightstand with a painful-sounding thump and the lamp that sat on it fell crashing to the floor, glass from the shade exploding everywhere as semi-darkness fell. Throwing himself over the mess, Castiel scuttled into the furthest corner from the door and slammed himself back-first into it so violently that the impact made him gasp.

It was over in seconds. Silence fell, shocking after the extraordinarily loud noise of the shattered lamp. Everything went still, the light from the corridor not bright enough to illuminate the shadowy corner of the room where Castiel now huddled, a dark bundle of misery.

“It’s okay,” Dean soothed him after a startled pause, blinking as he tried to adjust his eyes to the gloom. “It’s okay, Cas, it’s okay.” 

A light suddenly flicked on behind his back as Sam turned on another lamp. Now they could both see how Castiel was crammed into a corner, taking up as little space as possible; he stared up at Sam with a frantic expression, eyes wild and terrified, holding both his hands out before him protectively. His palms were bleeding where he’d cut them on the glass.

The brothers gazed at him, stunned. Then Sam looked down at the two chisels and the hammer in his hand and realized what had happened at the same moment that Dean did. 

To Castiel’s eyes, those tools must have looked like instruments of torture.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Sam said hurriedly, lowering them. “They’re not for you, Cas, honest.”

But Castiel continued to stare at Sam in dread, shaking, and Dean glanced at his brother and shook his head. “I think you need to get those out of here.”

Sam hesitated for a moment, then nodded and left. 

“You’re safe, it’s cool,” Dean said, turning back to Castiel. The angel tore his eyes from the doorway and stared at Dean, almost hyperventilating with fear. There was no recognition in his gaze; nothing but primal, basic terror. He obviously had no clue who Dean was – he was wild and unhinged, unable to comprehend what he was looking at. Dean was surprised at how much that hurt him, even though he knew that Castiel wasn’t himself. 

“Shhhh,” he said, holding his hands up in a gesture of peace. Castiel didn’t seem to understand and flinched away, pressing himself so hard against the wall that Dean was surprised it didn’t crack. “Shhhh, you’re okay. You’re safe, he’s gone. He wasn’t going to hurt you. He really wasn’t, Cas, you’re among friends. Come on, you know us! You know me, Cas, I’m Dean. Dean Winchester. Remember?”

Castiel’s eyes kept flicking to the door and back to him. He shuddered and drew in his arms around his body protectively, somehow making himself even smaller. He looked like a child, cold and terrified, and Dean’s heart ached for him. 

“You’re okay,” he said again, as gently as he could. “You’re okay, Cas, you’re okay...”

He repeated it for a while, over and over, waving Sam away when he reappeared at the door and made Castiel’s face twist in fear. Eventually, after what could have been anything from fifteen minutes to an hour – it seemed to go on forever – Castiel relaxed a little, his expression going slack. Finally he looked down at the floor and sat quietly, reacting to nothing, and Dean sat back on his heels in relief. 

“There you go,” he said soothingly, feeling as though he was talking to a toddler. “There you go. There’s nothing to worry about. You’re safe.”

Blood was dripping from one of Castiel’s hands. Dean stared at it sadly as it started to pool among the glass. “I need to clean you up,” he said. “I need to clean up this glass, too, or you’re gonna cut yourself again.”

No response. Sighing, Dean slowly climbed to his feet, gauging if the movement was having an affect on his friend, but Castiel seemed to have returned to that strange, blank state again; even his breathing had evened out. 

“Here,” Sam said behind him, finally able to enter the room. He was holding a dustpan and brush. 

Dean nodded and carefully swept up the glass, wary of startling Castiel as he wielded what could also, of course, be construed as a weapon. But again: no response. He was gone again.

“I guess we can’t break the manacles that way, then,” Sam observed ruefully as Dean finished up. “We’re just going to have to break the wards.”

Dean beckoned his brother out into the corridor, lowering his voice. “The manacles have spikes on the inside,” he growled, remembering what he’d seen earlier. “That’s how they’re held in place. They’re like needles, dozens of them, all digging into his skin.”

Sam paled. “Crap. That’s gotta hurt.”

Dean grimaced. “It explains why they keep bleeding, too. There’s definitely some kind of spell there we can’t break. You’re right, we have to research.”

“I’ll hit the books. Do you need any help with Cas first?”

Dean looked behind him at the bundle in the far corner of the room. “Nah, I think he’s catatonic again. Hopefully he’ll be okay, unless I come at him with another chisel.”

Sam’s expression hardened. “I hope that’s not something he actually experienced.”

“Yeah,” Dean replied, suddenly exhausted. “Me too.”

 

* * *

 

Castiel allowed Dean to pick colored glass out of his palms, clean and bandage them without wincing once. He continued to stare at the floor, blinking slowly, his body limp and unresisting. Once he was done, Dean pondered whether to try to lift him onto the bed, but thought better of it: instead he pulled the blankets off the mattress and lay them gently over him, adding some pillows to the mix in case Castiel was uncomfortable on the hard floor. 

Although given the past five years, an uncomfortable floor was probably the least of Castiel’s worries.

After that, he picked up his computer and started to research, but it had been two days since he’d last slept and it was virtually impossible to concentrate. Finally he admitted defeat and went to find his brother in the library. 

“Hey,” Sam said, glancing up at him and looking far more awake than Dean thought he had any right to be. He closed his computer as Dean got closer, and a small voice in his head questioned the move, but he was too tired to wonder about it for more than a few moments.

“I need to hit the hay,” he announced. “I’m asleep on my feet here. But I don’t think we should leave him alone in case he panics again. Can you keep an eye on him?”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “You’ve just left him alone, haven’t you? What if he shuts the door and locks us out?”

Dean held up the key. “I thought of that.”

“And what if he piles furniture against the door?”

Dean blinked. “I, er, didn’t think of that.”

Sam chuckled, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “You really _are_ tired. Go on, I’ll stay up. I can read all this in there. He’ll be fine.”

The door to Castiel’s room was still open as Dean walked to his bedroom. He felt a rush of relief, and then all he felt was his bed and sleep. 

 

* * *

 

For two days, nothing happened. Dean researched. Sam researched. They took turns to sleep and eat, occasionally going out for food. Through it all, Castiel remained huddled in the corner of his room, swathed in blankets and blank-faced. Once, Dean noticed him scratching at the manacle on his left wrist, but Castiel stopped as soon as he realized he was being observed; other than that, it was as though he was barely alive. 

The vampire bites slowly faded, and the cuts on his palms healed soon after. But thin lines of blood occasionally streaked down from the collar on his neck and the manacles on his wrists, and getting those damn things off him seemed to be more important than anything else.

Finally, however, they had to admit they had hit a brick wall.

“There’s nothing,” Dean sighed, slamming shut a book and throwing it onto the bed beside him. “This is getting ridiculous. Those symbols just don’t exist. It’s like someone just made them up and there’s no lore on them at all.” 

Sam, who was sitting in the ridiculously uncomfortable chair and would probably regret it, scowled at his computer screen. “Maybe they did. But even then, they’d have to come from somewhere. There’d be some kind of root syntax, some glyphs to adapt them from.”

“You’d think being a hunter would involve just knowing how to fight monsters, but instead you’ve gotta have a freakin’ PhD in arcane languages. I need a new career, seriously.”

His brother didn’t reply; he just continued staring at his screen, forehead furrowed. Dean looked down at Castiel, whose eyes were closed. He could have been asleep, but it was hard to tell the difference from his usual state. He looked small and lost. In his mind’s eye, Dean saw a quick flash of that website with its moving, pornographic thumbnail images, and he had to look away.

“Huh,” Sam murmured.

“What?”

“I think I found something.” He glanced up at Dean. “There’s a witch in Virginia who specializes in creating binding spells. Maybe the demons used her.”

Dean considered it. “Hmm. Sounds a bit of a leap. Witches and demons aren’t exactly bosom buddies these days.”

“Yeah, but even if they didn’t get her to create these sigils, maybe she could understand them,” Sam said, growing more animated with every word. “It’s worth finding out, surely?”

“I guess so,” Dean shrugged, before adding, “and don’t call me Shirley.”

Sam totally ignored the gag, which was probably advisable. “I have her address. I can go if you wanna stay here and look after Cas.”

Dean looked across at Castiel again, hesitating. “Maybe we should both go and take him with us.”

Sam stared at the angel too. “I dunno, Dean. If he freaked out again... he’s probably safer here.”

It was true. Even as Dean had suggested the road trip, he’d felt his stomach flip at the thought of Castiel outside, in the real world, away from the pillows and blankets and peace of the bunker. “Yeah... this _is_ his home,” he said, slowly. “If he’s gonna come around anywhere, it should be somewhere he knows.” 

Sam rose, closing his laptop and rolling his shoulders. “No time like the present,” he announced. “Do you need anything before I go?”

Dean shook his head. Then, as Sam went to leave, he gestured for him to pause. “Hey. Good work, Sammy.”

To his surprise, Sam looked oddly guilty for a few moments before he nodded. “Thanks.”

“You okay?” Dean asked, suddenly suspicious, although for the life of him he had no idea why.

“Just tired,” said his brother. “Look after him.”

And he was gone.

 

* * *

 

Sitting around with nobody to talk to was tough, because it gave Dean time to think. When he thought, he thought about what had happened to Castiel. It wasn’t something he _wanted_ to think about, but he couldn’t help it. He thought. 

There was one thought he’d been trying to bury since the night they’d rescued him, and with Sam gone, Dean finally surrendered to it. He collected Sitchwell’s computer and, after a deep breath, opened it, waiting as it found the bunker’s wifi. 

He felt cold sweat forming on his skin as the seconds ticked by; somehow, he was going to take down that fucking website. He had no idea how, but there had to be a way. 

But the site wasn’t there any more.

Dean blinked at the message that said _we’re having trouble finding that site_ and felt something stirring in his stomach – something uncomfortable, something suspicious. He had destroyed that computer when they’d found Castiel: he was certain there was nothing left of it. But smashing up a computer wasn’t enough to take a website offline. Someone else had to do that; someone with log-ins and access. He’d known that, of course – he’d merely been exorcising his anger on something solid. His aim had been to destroy any videos of Castiel that had yet to be posted, but he’d known that the website would still remain in place on the dark web.

So why was it gone now? 

Had they left some demons alive? But why would they take it down? Surely they’d want to keep it running, delighting in showing those horrific images of demons taunting an angel. Only someone who cared about Castiel would want to... would think about...

Dean swallowed hard.

_Sam had looked guilty._

In an instant, Dean knew. 

His brother had used the log-ins to take down the site, which meant he’d found them somewhere. 

Dean had left him by the computer as he’d rushed down to the cellar to save Castiel, hadn’t he? 

Sam had taken its hard drive. 

He must have shoved the damn thing into his pocket before following. He’d used the information stored on it to shut down the website. He’d been thinking three steps ahead of Dean the whole time.

Feeling his skin crawl, Dean climbed off the bed and went into his brother’s room. He started to search, hoping that he was wrong, but Sam had clearly not been expecting his belongings to be ransacked because Dean found what he was looking for within minutes.

He knew it was the right hard drive, because there was a smear of blood on one corner.

He stared at it, fighting down a surge of anger. After shutting down the porn site, Sam had probably been using it to try to decipher the sigils; it was, no doubt, where he’d found the address for the witch. Dean realized, belatedly, that Sam had been closing his laptop screen whenever Dean had walked past him. His sneaky brother, copying all that data onto his own laptop and sifting through it quietly, trying to help Castiel without telling Dean the full story. But why would he keep it a secret from him?

To protect him, of course. Because this fucking drive in Dean’s hand was _full of videos of Castiel being raped._

He took several deep, steadying breaths, knowing that he had to be sensible here. This thing could be used for good: look at what Sam had done with it already. The videos were, hopefully, all contained here and nowhere else. It meant that they had full control over Castiel’s history. The demons were in the past: now Castiel could have a fresh start.

 _How many videos?_ Dean thought, cold fury burning in his lungs. _How many times had they filmed him? How many demons and other creatures were in those videos?_

Dean wanted to kill them all. Every single one of them. Slowly.

He had proof, right here in his hand. A way to identify them. A library of rapists and torturers, just waiting to be tracked down and punished.

He let the anger consume him and made a decision.

 

* * *

 

Castiel was scratching at the manacle on his left wrist again when Dean entered the bedroom. He dropped the hard drive on the bed and crouched in front of him, keeping his movements slow and unthreatening, but Castiel flinched anyway. He put his arm back under the blanket and lowered his head, and Dean saw that there was blood under the fingernails of the hand he’d been scratching with.

“That thing’s driving you nuts, huh?” he said softly, reaching out and pulling Castiel’s wrist back out again. It was bleeding, but some of the blood came from scratchmarks rather than from under the metal. He sighed. “Here, let me clean this up.” 

He turned to grab a sterile wipe. When he turned back again, Castiel was looking at him apprehensively. 

“Hey,” Dean said, surprised to see him looking vaguely lucid.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel whispered, so quietly that Dean almost didn’t hear him.

“Cas?”

The angel’s eyes were wide and dark. “Please don’t punish me. I didn’t mean to. I’ll leave them alone. I promise.”

Dean hesitated, thinking carefully about his words. He placed the cloth on Castiel’s wrist as comfortingly as he could. “It’s okay, Cas. Nobody’s going to punish you. All we want is for you to be better.”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed. “Better at what? What do you need me to do?” 

Puzzled, Dean frowned. “Uh, _better_ better. You know. Feel healthier. Stronger. More like yourself, Cas.”

Castiel’s gaze fell to his wrist. He watched impassively as Dean wiped away the blood, then murmured again, “I’m sorry. Please don’t punish me.”

“Nobody’s going to punish you, okay? You’re safe now. Do you understand? Safe?”

But it seemed that was all Dean was going to get from him for a while. Castiel’s expression blanked again, and he went back to staring at the floor despite Dean’s efforts to get him to engage. 

“Fuck,” he whispered to himself. “ _Fuck._ ”

He waited a while and then picked up his laptop.

 

* * *

 

The hard drive contained file after file of emails, notes and complex demon contracts. Dean scanned them half-heartedly, knowing his brother must have already worked through them all looking for information on the sigils... which left Dean free to look for other, more disturbing things. 

He wanted names, addresses and other contact details for the creatures that had misused Castiel for the past five years. He wanted to know who they were. Where they were. _What_ they were. He wanted to kill them. He didn’t care if it took another five years: every single one of them had to die for what they’d done to his friend.

Unfortunately, it soon became apparent that there was nothing of the sort on this hard drive. He’d been hoping for some kind of address book, but all the emails he read came from encrypted sources, and Dean didn’t have the know-how to investigate them. None concerned booking appointments with the demons’ angel prisoner, either: most discussed crossroad deals and the availability of hell hounds on particular nights. It was strange reading through endless lists of humans and their deals in bland Excel documents. A good many of the deals, Dean noted idly, seemed to involve becoming Instagram influencers.

“Fucking twenty-first century,” he muttered, shutting down the document. 

He sighed, looking over at Castiel, who was catatonic again. 

_Five years,_ he thought. _Five fucking years._

There was a folder he’d deliberately avoided so far, one that said _PORN_ in capital letters. Dean squeezed his eyes shut, trying to decide what to do, then opened them again.

He clicked the folder.

The videos inside were sorted by date. None of them had names, just numbers. There were three hundred and seventeen in total. 

Three hundred and seventeen videos of Castiel being raped and tortured. The thought was mind-boggling; he felt bile rise in his throat. Was this everything that had been done to Castiel during those years? Or were they simply edited highlights? What if the demons hadn’t wanted to be filmed? It stood to reason that not all of them wanted their sessions made public. Had they been filmed anyway?

Three hundred and seventeen videos seemed like a lot, but as Dean considered it, he realized that it wasn’t – not for five years of captivity. These must be the chosen sessions. The _special_ ones.

Dear god, what the hell was on here?

Despite his better judgment, a morbid kind of curiosity overtook him. He turned the volume down to zero and looked at the date on the first video. Digging through his memory, he calculated that it was three weeks after he’d last spoken to Castiel before his disappearance, five long years ago. 

Gritting his teeth, he opened it.

_Black and white grainy footage. A windowless room, shot from a corner above the foot of the bed. Castiel was naked, chained to the headboard, alone and quite obviously furious. He was tugging the chains so hard that his muscles were bulging, standing on the bed and pulling with all of his might. He pulled and pulled, throwing his head back and straining, but the chains weren’t leaving either the headboard or his manacles._

_Castiel suddenly stopped, looking behind him. He said something, then took a few steps backwards on the mattress until he was against the headboard. A man came into view – a demon, probably – and pointed at the mattress. Even without sound, the implication was clear: lie down._

Dean paused the video, noticing as if from somewhere far away that his hand was shaking. He looked across at the Castiel sharing the room with him, but he hadn’t moved. Then he stared at the image frozen on the screen and realized that he needed sound – he’d only intended to take a screenshot of the demon’s face, but the quality was too grainy to make him out. He needed to hear what he was saying, too. Even an accent could help. He had to identify these bastards. They couldn’t get away with what they’d done.

He pulled on some headphones, feeling sweat pooling at the base of his spine, and pressed play.

_“–right the hell now,” the demon was saying._

_“You are joking,” Castiel replied, his voice filled with defiance. “I am not your slave.”_

_“You have no fucking idea how wrong you are, angel. Now lie down so I can fuck you like the little slut I know you are.”_

_Castiel tugged on the chains, which rattled alarmingly. “Why don’t you release me and I’ll show you what I think about that idea?”_

_“Fuck’s sake,” snapped the demon. He moved faster than Dean’s eyes could track, appearing beside the bed in an eyeblink, shoving Castiel forward until he fell in a heap on the mattress, chains pooling around him. Then the demon was on top of him, holding him down and reaching to undo his belt, as Castiel growled in fury and thrashed against the sheets._

_“I like it when you fight,” the demon hissed, keeping him subdued with only one hand, as though he weighed nothing. “You guys have lorded it over us for too many millennia. Now it’s our turn.”_

_He pushed himself violently inside him, faster than seemed possible without preparation or even a look to see what he was doing. Castiel roared in pain and anger, trying desperately to throw him off. Instead the demon grabbed a handful of his hair and forced his head back painfully._

_“Keep on fightin’, Castiel, keep on fightin’. You feel so good, you just keep on–”_

Dean slammed the laptop shut, panting in horror, ripping off the headphones. 

A few feet away, Castiel stared dully at the floor, oblivious.

 

* * * 

 

He needed a break after that. He went to the kitchen and grabbed some beer, downing a bottle in one go. He looked at himself in the mirror for a while, wondering what kind of person would deliberately watch a recording of his friend being raped, but then he talked himself round by reminding himself that he was doing it to track down the bastards responsible. 

He had more beer. Then, because he still felt queasy, he had a glass of scotch.

When he returned to the bedroom Castiel still hadn’t moved. Dean realized that he’d forgotten about the fact Castiel could have barricaded himself behind the closed door, but after all these days it didn’t seem like something the angel would do anyway. The thought made him sad: as far as Castiel was concerned, he was still a captive – he’d certainly shown no sign of acknowledging that he was free – and yet he didn’t seem to want to save himself. 

“They really broke you, didn’t they?” Dean said softly, staring at him. 

Castiel blinked slowly, but that was all.

 

* * *

 

It was easy to snap a shot of the demon’s face as he fucked Castiel, although the end result was low quality and hard to make out. Dean created a new folder, numbered the image, and created a document to go with it. 

_Generic demon number one,_ he wrote.

The second video featured three demons. They were rough. Castiel fought them, but with his arms shackled and his powers diminished, there was nothing he could do. Dean only watched for a few seconds, snapping pictures of their faces as quickly as he could. He didn’t want to see more than he had to. He didn’t want to hear the furious, anguished noises Castiel made as they worked on him. 

The third video was a surprise. Castiel was slumped against the headboard, seeming defeated, and the man that walked into the room didn’t hesitate before joining him. The moment it climbed onto the bed, however, Castiel suddenly grabbed a loop of chain and wrapped it around the creature’s neck. It bucked against him, mouth open in a wordless scream, as Castiel twisted the chain tighter and tighter, his expression grim and determined. Fingers scrabbled at his hands; the creature’s eyes rolled and strange bursts of light started pulsing from its nailbeds – nothing like a demon, or an angel, or anything else Dean recognized; whatever this creature was, it wasn’t anything he knew. But Castiel was killing it, and he willed him on with every fiber of his being until he heard a _crack_ on the recording and it lolled sideways, dead.

There was a brief, triumphant pause as Castiel looked down on his prize, panting. Dean stared at him on the screen, thrilled, proud of his friend for not giving up. Then his captors came charging into the room. One knelt by the side of their dead customer: the other four started to beat Castiel with blows that would have killed a human stone-dead in seconds.

Dean was too horrified at first to screenshot their faces. After a short break, however, during which time he downed some more whisky, he made sure to go back and photograph them as they broke Castiel’s body. It wasn’t as though he could help past-Castiel, was it? But he could hunt those bastards down in the present. And he would.

The fourth video didn’t involve any sex. Instead, a creature whose eyes flared silver as it glanced up at the camera set about peeling strips off Castiel’s back like an artist working on a canvas.

 _Shapeshifter,_ wrote Dean, his fingers shaking on the keyboard. _Note to self: kill it slow._

He watched more. As he watched, he drank, but being drunk didn’t make it any easier.

 

* * *

Sam called that evening to check in. Dean was too tired to mention what he’d found, deciding to save that argument for another day. Sam didn’t seem to notice anything wrong, or if he did, he hid it well. Once he’d hung up, Dean thought about making some food, but the thought of eating after, well, _that_ , was impossible. 

He drank more whisky instead. 

 

* * *

 

Castiel remained silent, gazing vacantly at the floor as he huddled in his corner. Dean sat on the bed and stared at him for a while, trying to reconcile the Castiel he’d seen determinedly killing someone with the beaten, lifeless Castiel in front of him. 

How had they broken him? Had it been the violence? Had it been the sex? Had it just been the repetition, the punishments, the helplessness of his situation?

Dean settled into the uncomfortable chair and pulled on his headphones. Instead of choosing one of the earliest videos, as before, he picked a random one from two months ago. He wanted to see the change for himself; how Castiel behaved when he wasn’t fighting back. Steeling himself, he pressed play. 

The picture quality was significantly better – Dean assumed the demons had upgraded their kit with the money they’d made from pimping out their prisoner; assuming demons paid for anything, of course. It was a different room than before, one of who-knew-how-many rooms Castiel had been dragged into over the years, all of them with the same set-up of no windows, a bed and that heavy, metal headboard. He was lying on the mattress, eyes closed, and Dean watched in trepidation as a handsome, twentysomething man calmly walked into the room, undressed and looked up at the camera, eyes flashing black. Then the demon climbed on top of Castiel, legs straddling his thighs.

Castiel’s eyes snapped open. He reached up, chains clanking, and stroked the demon’s nipples gently, palms flat on the skin. The expression on his face changed from blankness to a quiet, almost tender one, and Dean frowned, disturbed – the contrast between this Castiel and the previous, defiant one he’d been watching earlier was enough to give him whiplash. But it wasn’t over yet. As he watched, Castiel surged upwards and licked the demon’s neck, then trailed kisses and licks down his chest before pushing him backwards onto the bed. 

Dean watched in absolute amazement as Castiel began to suck the demon’s cock. 

It wasn’t just an ordinary blowjob, either. Castiel was clearly long-practiced and familiar with what to do – he sucked him and pumped him like a porn star, eliciting groans from his partner that seemed to spur him on. He sucked hard and fast, head moving up and down like it was something he’d been born to do, and as his lips and tongue slurped against the penis in his mouth the small, pornographic noises he made went straight to Dean’s cock. 

Dean felt his world turn upside-down. He shouldn’t be watching this. He shouldn’t be watching this, let alone finding himself _turned on_ by this, but it was happening, and he couldn’t seem to bring himself to turn it off. The Castiel on the screen started moaning wanton, disgusting sounds; they went straight from Dean’s headphones down to his penis until it started to harden, even as he gulped in oxygen to try to clear his brain. But he couldn’t – this was just too fucking hot, too insane, too erotic. Still Castiel’s head went up and down and still he sighed and moaned until finally, unexpectedly, the demon sat bolt upright and threw Castiel backwards, tugging his legs apart, spitting on his hand and wiping it on his cock. 

“What are you?” the demon asked, his voice deep and dangerous.

“I’m a filthy angel whore,” Castiel said, and made a pornographic, glorious cry as the demon, his cock hard and glistening, thrusted into him.

“ _Ungh..._ ” the demon growled as he thrusted again, twisting his hips. “What are you?” 

“...A filthy angel _whore_ ,” Castiel snapped, and then he was being fucked so hard that he had to lift his arms and brace himself against the headboard, crying out with every thrust, wrapping his legs around the demon’s bare back as its buttocks pumped into him and–

Dean slammed the laptop shut. He was drenched in sweat, panting like he’d been running. He had to stop. He had to stop. This wasn’t porn, this was _rape_ , what the _fuck was wrong with him?_

He stood and glanced over at Castiel, who seemed as oblivious as ever, and then ran out of the bedroom to climb inside a bottle of scotch. 

 

* * *

 

Sickened, too drunk to analyze what had just happened and yet unable to think of anything else, Dean spent the next hour miserably swigging straight from the bottle before falling asleep on one of the red leather chairs in the corner of the library. 

He had the strangest dream. At first it was the normal nonsense: he was on a hunt with his dad and young Sammy, but Sammy just wanted to grab an ice cream and didn’t care about the ghost, who slowly morphed into the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man because that was the kind of dream Dean tended to have after he’d spent an entire day downing whisky. But then something changed... he was on the bed with Castiel, who was stroking him with his chains, and Dean tried to tell him something comforting but Castiel simply kissed him tenderly on the lips and moved down his torso, sucking at his nipples and removing his jeans with gentle hands. He ran his fingers through the hair around Dean’s crotch and then, with no preamble, swallowed his half-erect penis in one go, making Dean arch in the chair and swear in shock. Castiel’s head bobbed up and down, up and down, just as it had in that video Dean had watched that time – he had no idea when, as his dream logic was too focused on the fire building in his dick – and then Castiel was licking him, hot and wet, making tiny, contented moaning sounds that Dean started to match because he was feeling so fucking good right now, and Castiel’s mouth was _so hot_ and the suction was perfect, better than any blowjob he could remember, and he felt himself getting closer and closer and fingers suddenly swept up his thighs and pulled his legs further apart and Castiel’s mouth swooped so low onto his dick that it seems as though he was going to swallow him balls ‘n’ all, and the very thought made him gasp and thrust upwards, and Castiel responded by sucking with even more force, groaning deep inside him with a rumble that somehow made his cock even harder, and then suddenly Dean Winchester was wide awake and coming harder than he’d ever come in his life right down Castiel’s hot, willing throat. 

_It wasn’t a dream._

Reality hit him with the force of a nuclear blast. His eyes snapped open and he gasped, fingers digging into the arms of the chair so hard they almost ripped the leather. The pleasure ricocheted around his body, waves of ecstasy that moved from his head to his toes; he felt as though he’d been turned inside-out and back again and he moaned from the force of it, lost in the aftershocks. 

Eventually he was self-aware enough to orient himself. He looked down, still panting hard. Castiel was kneeling between his legs, a hand on each spread knee, gazing up at him with dark, mournful eyes and a worried expression. 

His lips were wet and glistening red.

“Oh my god,” Dean moaned, feeling cold air on his wet, spent cock. He slammed his legs together – and what the fuck, where were his jeans? He’d fallen asleep with clothes on, hadn’t he? He blinked in confusion and then realized that Castiel had taken them off him, removing his boots and socks at the same time, and Dean’s shirt was undone too; he’d stripped him while he was too drunk to wake up and then blown him like he was one of his customers, one of those fucking demons who came in and took him like he belonged to them.

Suddenly Dean felt nausea churning in his gut as the booze and horror combined. It hit him so hard that he had barely enough time to lean over the side of the chair before he puked mightily.

Castiel scuttled backwards, looking terrified, not taking his eyes off Dean’s face, but he could barely spare him a glance. He felt dreadful, and it wasn’t just because he was throwing up.

What had Castiel done to him?

_What had he done to Castiel?_

“You wanted me to be better,” Castiel said hoarsely, his voice panicked, as Dean finally managed to sit upright and wipe his chin. “You told me: ‘Be better.’ I tried, I really tried. I was better, wasn’t I? You liked that? I don’t understand why you were sick. Did I do it wrong?”

“ _Fuck,_ ” Dean snapped, breathing hard. 

“We can do that too, I can do that,” Castiel nodded, leaning forward eagerly. “Whatever you want, we can do it, just tell me, I can be better. I could feel what you wanted, I could feel it, and you told me to be better so I came to you. I came to you so you didn’t have to come to me. That’s better, isn’t it? Me coming to you?”

Dean had to stop for a moment, his heart pounding in his ears. He was half-naked and had vomit in his mouth. Castiel’s saliva was on his cock. He had just come in his friend’s mouth and neither of them had consented, not really, not in the usual way. Castiel was half-crazy. He’d raped him. They’d... they’d raped each other.

“I need– I need a shower,” Dean managed to bite out. “Stay here, okay? Don’t move. Please, don’t go anywhere, Cas.”

Castiel nodded vigorously, still looking scared, and drew his legs up so he was hugging his knees. “I won’t move,” he rasped, gazing up at Dean as though he was God himself. 

Dean stood. The room went sideways. He sat down again, then stood up, and this time the alcohol in his blood allowed him to stagger away, leaving Castiel crouched by the table with his head buried in his knees, shaking.

First he showered hot, scalding the feel of Castiel’s mouth from his skin. Then he showered cold, trying to slow his frenzied thoughts. Finally, somewhat more sober, he stepped out of the cubicle, shivering, and stood dripping for a long time as he tried to figure out what the living fuck had just happened.

The videos. It had been the videos. Castiel had said he could “feel” him. Of course he could; he was an angel. He could sense things, and he’d been sitting in that corner while Dean had watched videos of him fucking demons, and he’d felt him getting turned on. He’d _felt_ Dean’s misplaced lust and assumed that Dean wanted him. 

And then when Dean had gone into the other room, he’d followed, because he’d been trained over the course of five years to look after his clients, hadn’t he?

Why the fuck had he watched those videos? They were none of his business! He’d been drunk and turned on by the sight of his best friend being raped, and now look at what had happened!

A sob suddenly welled up in Dean’s throat, and the next thing he knew he was crying for the Castiel he’d once known, the Castiel who had been so mighty and self-controlled; the angel who’d pulled both him and his brother out of Hell, who’d helped them fight darkness in every form, the angel who’d made him laugh and survived death and had become so much more human after hanging out with the Winchesters. He cried for the old Castiel, and then he cried for the terrified, sex-obsessed Castiel in the library who thought Dean only wanted him for his hot, tight mouth.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, although obviously nobody could hear him. “I’m so sorry.”

 

~ ~ ~


	2. Chapter 2

 

It took a long time to gather himself together, but Dean knew he had no choice. He dried off, went to his room and threw on some clothes. He drank some water and realized that he was starving, but that could wait. At least he felt more sober, although his head ached like a bastard. Then, after taking a series of deep, calming breaths, he went back out to the library.

Castiel didn’t move as he approached, and so Dean decided to clean up the puke while he had a moment. It was almost all whisky and beer anyway, so it didn’t take long, and when he was satisfied that the floor of the library wasn’t going to smell like a distillery, he finally sat down cross-legged in front of Castiel and sighed.

“Look at me, Cas,” he said. He wasn’t sure if Castiel was even lucid right now, but he was pleased when the angel instantly looked up. The light in the library was much better than the light in the bedroom, and Dean could see how pale and tired he looked, even after his wounds had healed and he’d had several days of rest.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel whispered, shaking his head. “I don’t know what I did wrong. I don’t understand this... this place. It’s so different.”

Dean reached out and took one of Castiel’s hands, squeezing his palm reassuringly. “It’s okay, it’s okay. You’re fine. I just need to talk to you, okay? There are... er, there are new rules here, and it’s important that you don’t break them.”

Castiel nodded, staring at him seriously. His pupils were so dilated it was as though his eyes were black, not blue. Dean had missed those blue eyes.

“You’re not with the demons any more, Cas,” he said, trying to figure out how best to explain this. “You’re with me and my brother. I’m Dean and my brother is Sam. We’re human. We were your friends, long before you were ever with the demons. We’ve known you a long, long time, and you’ve forgotten us, but it’s okay. You’ll remember one day. And until then, we’ll look after you.”

Castiel frowned, his eyes glazing over a little. “But there... there wasn’t anything before the demons,” he said. 

Dean tried to control his expression even as the impact of Castiel’s words tore at his heart. He shook his head, but it had an unexpected side-effect – Castiel flinched, as though he thought Dean was gearing up to hit him. 

“It’s okay,” he said, hastily. “I’m not going to hurt you. It’s okay.”

“I don’t understand,” Castiel said, and to Dean’s sadness, he pulled his hand away from him and began to rock back and forth, over and over, gripping his legs and shuddering. 

“It’s okay, you’re not in trouble, Cas, I swear. We’re not going to punish you – we won’t hurt you in any way. You’re free, dude. The demons don’t control you any more. And that means you don’t have to have sex any more, okay? What you just did to me... or anything else you’re thinking of... you really don’t have to do it. If you don’t want anybody to touch you ever again, that’s cool.”

Castiel frowned. “No, that’s not right,” he said vaguely. “I’m a filthy angel whore.”

Dean almost gasped out loud. “You’re _not_ , Cas, you’re...” He had to shoot a look at the ceiling, asking the heavens for help, but of course nothing was forthcoming. “You’re an angel, and you’re clean, and you’re not a whore. You’re pure, Cas. You were pure before those bastards got hold of you and you’re still pure after everything they’ve done to you. It’s not your fault, okay? You’re clean. You’re... you’re my friend and you didn’t deserve any of this.”

“I’m a filthy angel whore,” Castiel said again, staring at him as though he was talking nonsense, and Dean realized that this wasn’t just the name of the website: this was some kind of mantra that he had been brainwashed into reciting over his time with the demons. 

“Okay, okay, it doesn’t matter,” he said eventually, as he was growing alarmed at how Castiel was rocking in front of him. “It’s okay, Cas, it doesn’t matter as long as you know you’re safe now.”

“Cas?”

Dean blinked. “It’s a nickname. Your name is Castiel, but Sam and me, we call you Cas.”

“Oh,” said Castiel, frowning. He looked down at his knees. “Was I better?” he asked suddenly. “I hope I was better. You came really quickly. Was it too fast? Did you like it?”

It felt as though all the air had been let out of the room. Dean sat quietly for a few moments, regarding his companion, watching him rock back and forth, the knuckles on his hands growing white from clutching so hard at his legs. 

“I love you, man,” Dean said finally, and he placed a hand on Castiel’s cheek, pretending not to notice when the movement elicited a small flinch. “I want you to know that, okay? I love you. I’ll get you through this. You’re my friend.”

“No, no – I’m a filthy angel whore,” Castiel muttered, and Dean dropped his hand and looked away, fighting back tears. 

 

* * *

 

He managed to persuade Castiel to stand and led him back into his bedroom, where he automatically went over to sit in his corner, ignoring the bed entirely. Dean noticed as he walked that he kept touching the collar on his neck and the manacles at his wrists, and after a few moments he deduced that it wasn’t just that they hurt him. He was finding it strange not to be carrying chains any more.

“Do you sleep?” he asked, as Castiel settled back down into his nest of blankets and pillows, but there was no response – the angel’s expression was shutting down again. Dean watched, half-repulsed and half-fascinated, as Castiel’s eyes glazed over and his face smoothed out. He looked down at the floor, blinking slowly, his whole body slumping; it was as though someone had told him to power down.

“Night,” he murmured, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder, and after staring at him for a little while he went to find some long-overdue food.

 

* * *

 

“I found her, Dean. She didn’t want to tell me anything, but I think she’ll come round.”

“Some good news at last,” Dean said into the phone, pinching the top of his nose between his fingers. 

His anger at his brother had died down a lot since the previous day. There was something about sneaking a peek at private videos of your friend being raped that made him feel ashamed of even looking for that damn hard drive.

“How long do you think it will take?” he continued.

“I still have a few loose ends to tie up, so not until tomorrow. Probably. Hopefully.”

“Tomorrow? What loose ends are there? Are you throwing a potluck party or something?”

There was a pause and Dean felt his spirits sink. 

“Er, I made a deal with her,” Sam replied, sounding guilty.

“A deal?”

“Yeah. She’s looking for the werewolf that bit one of her coven. I promised to help her hunt it down in exchange for some answers.”

“Great,” Dean muttered. “The fun never ends, does it? Look, you just make sure you watch your back. Never trust a witch, Sam.”

“Yeah, like that’s old news.” Sam paused. “How’s Cas?”

Dean closed his eyes. “We managed to have a brief conversation last night. He doesn’t remember life before the demons and has no idea who we are or even who he is.”

“I suppose that’s not really a surprise.”

“Those manacles are doing something to him, Sam, but until we get them off... I dunno. Maybe his memory will come back. Maybe it won’t. Either way, he’s a mess right now.”

He heard Sam sighing. “Well, he’s in good hands with you.”

Dean didn’t know what to say to that, so he just ended the call and tried not to think about how mind-fuckingly incredible that blowjob had been. 

 

* * *

 

As the day drew on, it became obvious that something was going on with Castiel’s manacles. The band around his neck started leaking blood in larger trickles, and Castiel kept scratching at the ones on his wrists before jerking his hands under the blankets every time Dean noticed him, like a child caught doing something wrong. At first Dean simply kept wiping the blood away, smiling at Castiel reassuringly as the angel looked at him with wide, scared eyes, but eventually something happened that made him realize this was more serious than he’d thought.

Sam had called again, asking Dean for some advice on werewolf lore, and Dean had spent twenty minutes searching through a confusing, dusty book in the library to find the answer. After passing on the information, he’d headed back into Castiel’s bedroom.

And stopped dead in shock. 

Castiel was on his hands and knees in the middle of the floor, panting and moaning as though he was in terrible pain. But that wasn’t the worst of it: the metal bands on his wrists and neck were glowing faintly, a red, spark-filled light that pulsed in time with Castiel’s groans. 

Dean stared, horrified, before dropping to his knees in front of him. “Hey, hey, what’s going on?” he asked, and Castiel reached out a hand and grabbed the front of his shirt, tugging on it desperately. _What the hell?_ “It’s okay, it’s okay,” Dean soothed him, unable to tear his eyes away from the freaky light on his wrist. 

But it wasn’t okay: Castiel threw his head back and screamed, and as Dean watched in consternation the band on his neck _moved_ , twisting and shuddering as it lifted from the skin. He saw a glimpse of blood-red needles and then the collar slid into a new position a few millimeters away from its previous location, settling itself back onto the flesh like a limpet gripping onto a rock. 

Castiel screamed again, and Dean looked down to see the same thing happening to his wrists: the metal seemed to be alive, wriggling and arranging itself on his body. Again, Dean could see needles being pulled out of his flesh and then sunk into a new spot as Castiel howled in agony, and again the metal bands settled in place like limpets, unnatural and terrifying, glowing angrily as they did so.

And then it stopped and the light disappeared. Castiel collapsed into a heap on the floor, gasping, making small, sad whimpering noises. Dean sat stupefied for a few moments, unable to comprehend what he’d just seen, and then stroked his back and whispered soothing sounds because it was the only thing he could think of to do. 

What the hell had happened? Were those damn manacles _alive_? 

“It’s okay,” he hushed his friend, and even as he said it he realized he was sick of hearing himself say that. Things were definitely not okay, and Castiel was suffering. Dammit, Sam needed to get back here with that information as soon as possible, because if this was going to–

And then that particular train of thought ended, because Castiel suddenly put a hand on his crotch. 

“Whoa!” Dean yelped, scuttling backwards. 

Panting, Castiel heaved himself to a kneeling position and stared at Dean through red, tear-filled eyes. “Please,” he said hoarsely, and reached forward. 

Dean scooted backwards again, staring at him in alarm. “No, Cas!”

Castiel’s eyes fell to Dean’s crotch. “ _Please,_ ” he said again, and his body swayed. “Let me touch you. Let me suck you.”

“Oh god,” Dean hissed, feeling his stomach doing leapfrogs. “Oh god, Cas, this isn’t you.”

Castiel met his eyes. He looked weary, desperate, brow furrowed in what looked like disappointment. “Please fuck me,” he said. “I need it. I’m your filthy angel whore.”

Dean shook his head. “No. No, you’re not. Please stop saying that. Please don’t touch me.”

Castiel regarded him for a few moments and then his body slumped. “I understand,” he sighed. “I understand. Later. _Later._ But it hurts, it really hurts.”

“You’re really messed up, Cas,” Dean murmured, gazing at him with a mixture of horror and sadness. “I’m so sorry.”

But Castiel had shut down again. He just knelt quietly, staring at the floor, and he didn’t move, even when Dean finally snapped out of his shock and, with trembling hands, cleaned up the blood on his wrists and neck.

 

* * *

 

He called Sam, but Sam didn’t answer, and so Dean made himself some coffee and took it into Castiel’s room to drink. He sat on the bed, watching his friend kneeling quietly in the middle of the floor, then collected his blankets and pillows from the corner and tucked them around him. It was pointless, but it was better than doing nothing. 

He had no idea what on Earth had happened with those manacles, but Sam was going to fix that as soon as he could, so Dean put it out of his mind for now. There was no point dwelling on it, and the way those things had writhed and then jabbed Castiel with their needles made him feel queasy. 

He also didn’t want to think about how Castiel had just begged him for sex. Hell, no. He didn’t want to think about that at all.

Which meant that he thought about something else instead. 

The videos.

He needed to watch them. He needed to track down those monsters, because the alternative was unthinkable. But to do that, he had to see what they looked like. Even if they’d switched hosts since, and even if the videos were years old, it was a start. It was the only way he could even consider getting revenge for what had been done to his friend. 

And yet... 

And yet he hadn’t expected to find himself... 

He hadn’t realized he would get... so... 

_Turned on._

Dean shuddered. 

Okay, so he’d been drunk yesterday, and not in full control of his faculties. There, that made sense! He’d been drunk, and being drunk always made him horny. And no matter who was starring in those videos, they were still _porn_. They showed two people (or people on the outside, anyway) having sex, and some reactions to watching two people having sex were biological, hard to control. Like... like when actors did a sex scene, and the guy got turned on. It couldn’t be helped; it was natural. It was primal, something humans were programmed to do.

And it was in that unfiltered, alcohol-affected state that Castiel had sensed his libido and made moves on him – fuck, what a way to wake up – but that wouldn’t happen again. If Dean watched more of those videos, he’d do it in another room. Castiel would never know.

But that begged another question. Would Castiel, the real Castiel, actually want Dean to watch him being raped and tortured? 

Dean chewed it over in his mind. No. He was sure of it: Castiel would want those recordings destroyed. He’d be horrified if he knew Dean had seen them, as would Sam – if there was one thing Dean knew for sure, it’s that his brother would never have clicked that _PORN_ folder on the hard drive. Which made Dean feel like a terrible person, because he’d done it almost immediately. And so far he’d watched eight of the videos, or at least watched long enough to gauge what was happening in them. What did that say about his respect for Castiel’s privacy?

Those rapists needed to be hunted down, though. The thought of them out there – still breathing, still living their vile, evil demon lives after what they’d done...

Dean _had_ to watch more.

 

* * *

 

He hid himself in his own bedroom, but left the door open so he could hear if Castiel made any more noise from across the corridor. He didn’t use the headphones this time; instead he just turned the sound down as low as he could without it becoming completely inaudible. Hopefully Castiel’s angelic hearing wouldn’t be able to stretch this far. 

But then the thought that maybe it _would_ gave Dean a wobble – the last thing he wanted was for Castiel to know what he was watching – and so he finally compromised and simply put one earbud in. 

God, it felt disgusting to do this. He was sweating before he even started. 

The first video featured Castiel and a woman, and Dean managed to capture an excellent, clear image of her face and turn it off before she’d gone anywhere hear him on the bed.

The second featured a demon snapping all of Castiel’s fingers one-by-one. Feeling sick, Dean had to mute Castiel’s grunts and cries while he waited for a good shot of the bastard’s face, but the demon had already flipped Castiel face-down on the mattress and was fucking him before it looked up at the camera. Dean didn’t hang around after that to see what happened next.

The following video made him smile at first, because Castiel punched one of the two demons in the room with him so hard that it hit a wall and fell over. However, when the demon rose to his feet he forced Castiel’s jaw open as his friend pulled out its cock. Dean had to look away for a few moments while he regained his composure; this was nightmare material, pure and simple. He skimmed through the rest, hating how speeding up the action made it look vaguely comical, like it was a scene from a movie rather than real life, but he finally got two excellent stills of the demons’ faces as they left the room. 

The black-and-white form of Castiel lay still and blood-soaked on the bed behind them, and Dean found himself placing a hand on the screen, mutely trying to give him strength, until the recording ended.

He closed the laptop, went over to the basin and splashed water on his face, then waited a while for his heartbeat to slow down. When it had, he went to see if anything had changed in the other room. 

Castiel was scratching idly at one wrist, but – as usual – he stopped when Dean arrived, looking guilty.

“Hey,” Dean said, crouching before him. “How’re you feeling?”

But the angel’s expression became vacant, and Dean only studied him for a little while before heading back to his own room.

 

* * *

 

The walls of the prison would change as Dean watched, but Castiel always remained the same: angry, determined, occasionally able to defend himself, but always defeated in the end. It made Dean proud to see how he fought, checking the dates on the videos and noting how the weeks turned to months and Castiel didn’t give up. He kicked, he punched, he gouged eyes, he snapped bones. But always, inevitably, he was punished. He was completely under the control of his demon captors, and it was clear that many of his ‘clients’ actually enjoyed him fighting back. It wasn’t always about sex; a lot of them seemed to get off on the power-play, as long as they always won at the end, of course. Which they did, over and over. And once they’d won, they raped him. He was, after all, their filthy angel whore.

Castiel wouldn’t comply. He always turned his head when demons tried to get him to suck their cocks; he closed his legs when they tried to open them. He would struggle and snarl whenever they bent him over to fuck, and he would glare and hiss blue-bloody-murder if they tried to handle his cock. He wouldn’t break. He was a fighter, all the way. Dean frowned as he watched him fight, trying to understand how he’d gone from this furious, determined man to the one in the room a few feet away who’d been begging Dean to fuck him just hours ago.

Some of the videos were nothing but torture, and Dean couldn’t watch more than a few seconds. Some featured so many demons there wasn’t even room for them on the bed, and the recording would last hours and hours, an endless rollercoaster of writhing naked flesh, brutal violence and Castiel’s cries of defiance, which would eventually turn to whimpers. Dean skipped as much as he could but one of these orgies contained so many demons that he lost count; taking screenshots of their faces became so complicated that, feeling like a failure, he eventually gave up. 

One video, curiously, showed Castiel already writhing in pain as it began, and later on a demon apparently pleasured itself by rubbing its cock against his manacles. Another showed a vampire fucking him from behind, holding him upright as he struggled, sinking its teeth into his neck and drinking. Recognizing it, Dean was relieved that there was at least one creature from these hideous sessions that he had definitely already killed.

And then, after Dean had been watching for several long, uncomfortable hours and had captured images from dozens of recordings, something changed.

Castiel had been imprisoned for a year and a half, according to the time stamp. This time, a demon arrived and pulled the collar-chain tight, holding him still as he injected something into his neck. Castiel flinched, trying to get away, but to no avail; as Dean watched, puzzled, the demon emptied a second syringe into him.

And Castiel relaxed. 

His body fell limp on the bed and the demon smiled, running a hand down his chest appraisingly. “Yeah, that’s better,” he said, and Dean suddenly recognized him: it was Sitchwell, the drug dealer he and Sam had killed a few days ago.

“You fucker,” Dean breathed, leaning nearer to the screen. 

Sitchwell placed the syringes to one side, pulled off his clothes and climbed onto the mattress, stroking himself obscenely as he did so. Dean was torn between repulsion and curiosity, but the latter won out. 

Had he given Castiel heroin? The angel’s expression was blank, although his eyes were still open – and boy, did Dean know that look well. But... how did that work on an angel? They were too strong to be affected by something like that, surely? But clearly this stuff had done _something_ to Castiel. Perhaps the fact the angel had been significantly weakened had something to do with it. The manacles didn’t affect him enough to stop him healing – Dean had seen enough evidence to prove that he could recover from sometimes shocking injuries – but perhaps they allowed other weaknesses to take hold.

On the screen, Sitchwell straddled Castiel’s thighs and leaned over one of his ears. “Do you wanna come?” the demon said softly; Dean had to strain to hear it. Castiel didn’t reply at first, but Sitchwell repeated the question, patting him on the cheek as he did so, and finally his lips moved. 

It must have been a _yes_ , because the demon grinned and clapped his hands. Suddenly he turned round, staring right at the camera with glinting black eyes. Despite himself, Dean moved back a few inches, startled. 

“You see this?” Sitchwell called. “You see what I’ve done here? I told ya it would work. Enough of this stuff and you’ve got yourself a willin’ little slave. Pump enough into his veins and he’ll forget everything except that he wants to ride hot, hard demon cock.”

There was no response, but Sitchwell grinned and nodded all the same. “And I get to be the first,” he announced, slapping Castiel hard on his hip. He turned and reached down, taking Castiel’s limp cock in his hand. “Let’s see what I can do here.”

Against his better judgment, Dean watched in horror as the demon stroked and pulled Castiel’s penis, occasionally obscuring the view with his body, chuckling the whole time. It didn’t take long for Castiel to grow hard in his hand. The angel frowned and shifted his body, moaning, which made Sitchwell laugh and give him room. 

“You like this, you filthy angel whore? You like it when I make you hard?”

Dean gasped and paused the recording, shaken. Breathing heavily, he looked up at the ceiling, trying to collect his thoughts.

What could this mean? Is this what finally made Castiel break? Was he... was he a junkie? No, no, that was crazy. Plus as far as Dean had seen there had been no withdrawal effects during his time with them. Unless that weird shit with his manacles earlier had something to do with it, but Dean doubted that. They had been different. He couldn’t shake the feeling that those things were conscious, somehow. Alive. The very thought made him shudder.

Either way, this was the first time in these early videos of Castiel’s imprisonment that Dean had seen him respond sexually, and it disturbed him immensely. He thought back to the footage he’d watched yesterday of Castiel willingly fucking the demon, and swallowed in trepidation. 

From now onwards, these videos were going to be much, much tougher to watch; objectively, at least, it would seem that both participants were willing, and that was a total headfuck. 

_I can’t watch any more now anyway,_ Dean thought, moving to stand up from the bed. _I’ve had enough of this. I need to get away from this twisted little world._

“Dean,” Castiel moaned in his ear.

A chill ran down his spine. He looked up, confused, but Castiel wasn’t in the room.

“Oh yeah? Got someone in mind, have we?” said Sitchwell, and Dean realized belatedly that the recording had started to play again. He looked down at the screen, stunned. 

“Dean,” Castiel said again, and he groaned, his eyes flickering. “Don’t... stop...” He stretched out on the mattress, languid and seemingly delirious, and Sitchwell ran his thumb over the top of his cock and laughed. 

“Would this be the infamous Dean Winchester, my little slut? Is he your human boyfriend?”

Castiel moaned, writhing, and Sitchwell leaned down and licked him from jaw to forehead. It was animalistic, sickening; like Castiel was a piece of meat he was tasting. “You ever fucked him, angel?” the demon asked. “Cause I fancy seein’ how I feel inside you right now.”

He shoved Castiel’s thighs apart and rose up, preparing to push into him, but Dean had seen enough. He slammed the laptop shut and stood, trembling, unable to believe that Castiel had said his name while a demon had been doing... that... 

Why? Why would Cas think of him? Of all people – why would Castiel respond that way? 

Perhaps his name was a comfort. Perhaps, in the middle of all that pain, all that confusion, Castiel had been able to hold onto the thought of his friend, just for a little while.

He remembered how Castiel’s lips had felt on his cock, and closed his eyes.

_Friends._

 

* * *

 

It took him a while to collect himself, and then he checked on Castiel – still catatonic – and went to make some food, which he ate silently and methodically while staring off into space in the kitchen. It was getting late and he was tired again; his whisky-soaked stupor last night had hardly been relaxing, however it had ended. But he still hadn’t heard from Sam, and his brother wasn’t picking up. 

He swallowed down a stab of worry. He’d give him a few more hours. He was probably busy with the hunt, that was all. But the words _never trust a witch_ kept rolling through his head, and he wondered how long it would take him to drive all the way to Virginia.

He was just picking up his phone to try Sam again when a scream rang out, echoing around the tiled walls, and Dean was on his feet and running a millisecond later. He arrived in the bedroom to find a repeat performance from earlier: Castiel on his hands and knees, his whole body shaking, those weird metal bands glowing red and furious against his skin. As Dean watched, they moved again – sliding and jabbing indiscriminately, this time with more force than before, making Castiel shriek in agony. Dean glimpsed needles, saw blood start to pour from Castiel’s neck, and the glow got brighter and brighter until he had to look away.

“Make it stop!” Castiel managed to spit out, reaching towards him, and Dean – still shielding his eyes – dropped to the floor and grabbed his arm. There was nothing else he could do, though, until the manacles and collar stopped doing whatever it was they were doing, and it seemed to take forever until all three bands snapped into place and became lifeless metal shackles again.

Castiel crumpled into a gasping heap, his body jerking and twisting. For the second time that day Dean sat with him, at a loss, wondering what the fuck was going on. 

And for the second time that day, Castiel eventually composed himself enough to grab for Dean’s crotch.

“Jesus, Cas! No!” He slid backwards, horrified, unable to believe this was happening again.

Castiel stared up at him desperately. “Please let me fuck you, please let me fuck you,” he gasped, and reached out again. Dean caught his hand and Castiel moaned in relief, seeming to think it meant his efforts were about to be rewarded, but Dean just held him still. 

“This isn’t _you_ ,” he said, angrily. “You hear me, Cas? This isn’t you. They messed with your brain and you think sex is the answer to everything. You have to stop, you hear me? You can’t touch me like that.”

Castiel panted for a few moments, staring at him, and Dean’s heart twisted at the despair on his face. And then, finally, the angel bowed his head, pulling his hand away. “I’m sorry,” he rasped, sounding as though he was dying. “I’m sorry. I can wait. I can always wait. I’m sorry, please don’t punish me.”

“For fuck’s sake, Castiel! Nobody’s punishing you – how many times do I have to say that?” He stopped, controlling himself; his anger wasn’t aimed at Castiel, of course. “Look... those things on your neck and wrists. Do you know why they do that? Do you know how to stop it?”

But Castiel was curling up into a ball on the floor, his expression vacant, and Dean knew that was the end of their conversation.

There was a lot more blood to clean up this time round.

 

* * *

 

Finally, his phone rang. 

“Sammy? You okay?”

He could hear the sound of traffic on the other end. “Yeah, sorry I didn’t answer. Things got a bit crazy, but we’re done now.”

“Did you get what we need?”

There was a pause, then Sam replied, “Yes. But it’s... complicated. I should be home by tomorrow morning and I’ll explain it then. How’s he doing?”

“Not great. I know this sounds crazy, but those things on his wrists... I’d swear they’re alive, man. They keep moving around. It’s freaky and it’s really hurting him.”

“Yeah, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you’re not imagining it. They’re alive.”

Dean blinked. “What? What the hell _are_ they?”

“They’re called Oxidiens. They’re kind of half science, half magic. I don’t really understand it myself, but Karina says they have needs – they need blood and energy and other, er, stuff to survive.”

It was a lot to take in, and Dean rubbed his forehead, feeling his headache from earlier returning. “Karina?”

“The witch. Don’t worry, she was telling the truth. She owed me after I killed that werewolf.”

“Okay. So... do they come off?”

“Yes.” Sam made a disgusted sound. “But apparently only on the seventh of every month.”

That was such a ridiculous concept that Dean actually laughed. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. In just over a week, we can get them off Cas. But until then, they need some, er, handling.”

“Handling?”

A pause. “I’ll tell you when I see you. Seriously, Dean, it’s... crazy. Look, I gotta go.”

“Okay. See you soon.”

 _Oxidiens._ Dean headed for the library, but he couldn’t find anything, and when he googled he found nothing online, either. “What the fuck are these things?” he muttered to himself, but a yawn came from nowhere and he realized he needed to sleep more than anything else right now. 

But that opened up a whole new can of worms, and Dean already felt as though he was swimming in them. After all, what if Castiel tried the same thing with him as he had last night?

He could lock his door, but that worried him; he didn’t want to sleep through another one of those weird attacks. Not that he was much help to Castiel even when he _was_ there, but still. It felt wrong to just abandon him. 

And should he leave his side for so long anyway? What if he needed another kind of help? 

Eventually, after thinking long and hard, Dean found himself in Castiel’s room. He crouched down before him, lifting his head from the floor, trying to make the angel focus on him but without much success.

“Look,” he said, feeling a little foolish talking to someone who so clearly wasn’t listening, “I need to sleep, and I’m going to sleep on that bed up there. But I don’t want you to touch me, okay? Stay away, Cas, I mean it. No naughty stuff. No sex. You gotta promise me.”

Nothing.

Dean sighed. “Why do I feel I’m gonna regret this?” he muttered, and climbed onto the bed.

 

* * *

 

In the end he _was_ woken by Castiel, but not in the way he’d been worried about. The screaming started at five in the morning, and Dean could do nothing except watch as the red glow consumed Castiel’s neck and wrists and he yelled as the metal bands shimmied on his skin. Then the light grew too bright and Dean had to hide his eyes, and by the time it was all over, Castiel was unmoving and catatonic on the floor. 

“Why is this getting worse?” Dean muttered to himself as he checked Castiel’s pulse – too fast, but of course he couldn’t do anything about that anyway. He grabbed a pile of cloths to clean up the blood and then, seeing as he was all out of sleep for a while, decided to put Castiel back on the bed, where at least he could lie down comfortably. Castiel didn’t even twitch as Dean lifted him, but the bruised muscles on Dean’s back certainly did. 

It wasn’t long after that, as Dean was making coffee and pondering how utterly useless he felt right now, that Sam arrived.

 

* * *

 

“You may need to sit down.”

Dean looked at his brother suspiciously, but he pulled out one of the library chairs and fell into it. “Okay. Hit me.”

Sam was holding a book and had opened it to a page full of sigils. Dean instantly recognized that some of them were the ones on Castiel’s manacles. 

“See these? We lie Cas on the floor, and we draw these ones–” Sam pointed, “alongside these ones here, and those ones, on the floor beside him. Then we chant this incantation–” He flipped pages, finding a page of text in Latin, “and the Oxidiens will fall off Castiel’s body and die.”

Dean peered at him suspiciously. “That sounds way too easy.”

Sam grinned bitterly. “It’s not so much ‘drawing’ the sigils as making them out of copper wire.”

“Huh. Well, it’s a pleasant change from blood, I guess.”

“And there’s no guarantee Cas will survive. Apparently the longer you’ve been under the control of Oxidiens, the more bound to their, uh, lifeforce you become. Although he’s an angel, so I think he may be okay, even after five years.”

Dean rubbed a hand down his face. “And we can’t do this until the seventh?”

“Nope. These things were created by witches and seven is a mystical number to them.” He closed the book and looked worried, all of a sudden. “That’s not all, Dean. There’s something else.”

“Is this the ‘crazy’ part you promised on the phone?”

Sam opened his mouth, then shut it again. He sat down across from Dean, and to Dean’s amazement, he saw that his brother was blushing.

“Apparently, Oxidiens need... feeding.”

“Yeah, the blood. You told me that. Well, these guys have got their needles deep into Cas, so they’re slurping up O-neg like it’s going out of fashion.”

Sam swallowed. “It’s not just blood. The reason Cas has been... the attacks you talked about... it’s because they’re hungry. They need feeding every three or four days, or they start to cause problems. Cas won’t be able to last until next week, Dean. We have to feed them, or he’ll die.”

From the look of his brother’s face, Dean could already tell this was going to be bad. “What do they need? Newborn baby blood? Freakin’ _plutonium?_ ”

“Er...” Sam looked mortified. “They need... er... look, Cas was a sex slave, right? What’s the one thing the demons wouldn’t have had a shortage of for all those years?”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Lube?”

“Think...” Sam looked away. “Grosser.”

There was a long, uncomfortable pause as Dean realized what he meant. 

_What. The. Fuck._

Reading his face, Sam nodded. “I know it sounds insane, but it’s true.”

“Are you sure that witch isn’t yanking your chain?” 

“She was telling the truth, Dean. She even had the nerve to look sheepish about it.” He sighed. “She made them – the manacles Castiel’s wearing. The demons came to her just before they captured him and she created the Oxidiens to keep him powered down. Apparently it took a whole month. It’s a complex spell. And this is one of the reasons it was so complex. The demons asked for them to be fed something... weird.”

Dean reached for the beer his brother had left on the table for him; it was still early, but coffee just wasn’t doing it for him now. “So let me get this straight,” he said, after a huge swig from the bottle. “A witch created a bunch of metal jewelry for an angel that is not only _alive_ , but lives on _jizz_?”

His brother gave him a rueful smile. “I did say it was crazy.”

Dean stared at him silently for a few moments, his brain spinning in circles. “So how... what the hell do we do until we can get those things off him? Can he use... can he use his _own_ , uh... juice?”

Sam shook his head, and this time he just looked worried. “The whole thing is insane. Apparently Cas has to have sex with a partner – it’s something about ‘energy being released’. And then the partner has to, uh, ceremonially coat the metal while reciting a spell.”

“Oh, this just gets better and better.” Dean jumped his feet, slamming down his beer. “Are you kidding me? Seriously?”

“If it doesn’t happen soon, he’ll die,” Sam said quietly. “From what you said, he’s already suffering as the Oxidiens start to starve. He could only have another twenty-four hours left.”

Dean turned his back on his brother, putting his hands on his hips and staring at the floor. This was just getting weirder and weirder, and he wasn’t sure how much more of this crap he could handle. 

“That’s not even the bad news,” Sam continued.

Dean looked round at him again. “How could this possibly get worse?”

“Karina created the Oxidiens five years ago now. She’s forgotten a few things about the spell and says she never wrote it down. So the words you’re supposed to say as you... do it...” He shook his shoulders, clearly uncomfortable. “She can’t remember them. She’s come up with three possible choices, but if you don’t get it right first time, you have to wait a few hours before you can try again.”

“Never trust a fuckin’ witch!” Dean snapped, slamming his fist down onto the table. As Sam blinked at him, he realized something else, too. “And what’s all this ‘you’ crap, Sam? Have you already decided that I’m doing this?”

Sam just looked up at him, mute.

“What?”

His brother raised his eyebrows. “You’ve known Cas longer than me. And you’re closer to him.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m happy jumping his bones, Sam!” Even as he said it, he remembered Castiel’s tongue on his cock, and he had to look away.

“One of us has to do this or he’ll die, Dean!” Sam replied, reasonably. “I think it stands to reason that he likes you more than me. Once all of this is over, he’ll... I dunno, understand. I’m not sure he and I have that kind of relationship. It would be weird.”

“And you think it wouldn’t be weird for _me_?”

“You like him, Dean. You always have. And he likes you. I think you could do it. If it was me...” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and looked down at the table. “I don’t think I could–” He mumbled something that Dean didn’t hear.

“You couldn’t what?”

Sam froze. And then he said, very quietly, “I don’t think I could... perform.”

Despite everything, Dean took a moment to snort out a laugh. “My little brother, ladies and gentlemen, telling me he can’t get it up.”

Sam smiled, just a tiny bit, but when he looked up again his face was serious. “Come on, Dean, this isn’t a joke. Cas could die. You’ve gotta... you know.”

Dean flumped down in a chair again and rested his head on his hands on the table. “How is this my life?” 

“Cas probably knows the spell. The demons must’ve done it to him enough times over the years. Maybe you can wake him up enough so he can tell you what it is.”

“Yeah, I bet they have. But he’s not really in any kind of shape...” He broke off, struck with a sudden thought. 

Sam waited for a little while, but when Dean didn’t speak, he nudged his arm with his bottle of beer. “Hey. What?”

Dean was thinking back to the videos he’d watched. One video in particular: a demon he’d seen rubbing Castiel’s wrist-manacles with his cock. Castiel had seemed to be in pain before the man had even arrived – could it have been the Oxidiens demanding food? Was that it? Was that an actual recording of the spell being performed? 

“I know where we can get the right words,” he announced, sitting bolt upright. And then he remembered that he wasn’t supposed to have the hard drive, and he certainly shouldn’t have owned up to watching any of those videos. 

His stomach did a backflip. 

“Where?” Sam was watching him, a picture of concern.

Dean took another swig of beer. 

_Shit. Out with it._

“I found the hard drive, Sam.”

Sam paled a little. 

“I know why you took it, and it’s okay – I’m glad you took the website down, and you’d never have found that witch without it.”

His brother looked shocked, but after a few moments he nodded. “Yeah. Ah... Sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“It was full of videos of Cas being raped and tortured, I understand,” Dean said, wincing even as the words came out of his mouth. “But one of those videos has a demon doing the spell, I’m sure of it.”

Sam frowned. “And you know this... how? Did you watch it?” As Dean fell silent, suddenly unable to speak, Sam’s expression changed to one of horror. “Are you out of your _mind_? Why the fuck would you watch any of that stuff, Dean?”

“Because we need to find the bastards in those videos,” Dean gritted out, suddenly furious. “We can’t let them get away with what they did to him. We need to hunt down those sons-of-bitches and kill them, one by one, until every goddamn one of them is gone.”

His brother’s eyes widened. “But there must be hundreds of videos on there! How many have you watched?”

Dean shrugged uncomfortably. “Fifty-nine.”

“Fifty–” Now it was Sam’s turn to jump to his feet. He turned his back on his brother and rubbed his face with his hands, every inch of his body tight and tense. “Jesus Christ, Dean, do you know how twisted that is?”

“I only watched enough to get a screenshot of the people with him,” Dean snarled. “Just bits and pieces, here and there. It’s not like I settled down with a tub of popcorn and a box of Kleenex and watched every second of them, Sam, give me some credit.”

But even as he said it, he remembered how he’d watched Sitchwell giving Castiel a handjob. He remembered that other, handsome demon fucking Castiel and Castiel telling him he was a _filthy angel whore_ , and he remembered how he hadn’t turned the video off until he was already semi-hard in his jeans. He remembered how Castiel had sensed how aroused he was, and how a few hours later he’d followed him into the library and given him the blowjob of his life.

“If nothing else, it’s an invasion of Castiel’s _privacy_ ,” Sam was saying, furiously jabbing a finger at him. “What he went through was none of our business. You had no right watching those videos, Dean.”

“I did it so those fuckers would get punished. It’s our job, Sam: to hunt down and kill the monsters, or have you forgotten that? I didn’t enjoy it–” _you enjoyed some of it_ “–but now I have a list of demons and other creatures that we can track down and destroy. It was worth it, Sam, and I’d do it again.”

Sam stared at him silently, his chest heaving. 

“I’m not going to apologize.” Dean gulped another mouthful of beer. “It had to be done.”

“I don’t know what to say to you right now,” his brother said quietly. “You scare me sometimes, Dean, you know that?”

Out of nowhere, Castiel suddenly began to scream. 

Dean’s nerves were already jangled to the max, but this was something he could deal with, at least. He raced to the bedroom and watched in alarm as Castiel arched off the bed, his body spasming and twitching, wails of pain tearing from his throat. Sam reached Dean’s side in the doorway just as the metal bands started to glow and they both had to turn away, their eyes stinging. Behind them Castiel screamed and thrashed, and this time it lasted longer than any of the other attacks. 

When the light finally did die down the brothers turned back to look just as the manacles slid into place, the action making an obscene _slurping_ sound. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Sam take a step back, repulsed. 

And then it was over. Castiel lay panting and bleeding on the mattress, his eyes half-open and staring at nothing, small moans escaping his throat as he shuddered in the wake of the pain. Dean’s heart constricted at the sight of him. 

_He was going to die._

“We don’t have to agree on what you did, Dean,” Sam said after a long pause, staring at Castiel, “but you have to help him.”

“I know,” Dean replied, and he took a deep breath. “I think you should leave now.”

 

* * *

 

Dean picked up his laptop and, trying to control his shaking hands, scrolled through the folder until he found the video that might contain the spell. He didn’t bother with headphones this time: Castiel seemed too out of it to care. 

The video had been recorded eight months after Castiel had been captured. After hesitating, trying to pretend that the argument he’d just had with his brother had never happened, Dean pressed play.

The video began with Castiel moaning and jerking against his chains as the demon entered the room. Dean squinted; it was hard to tell in black-and-white, but the metal bands on his body did seem to be glowing a little. It was much fainter than he’d seen so far – this attack was apparently happening when the Oxidiens weren’t as hungry as they were with his Castiel.

“So your little parasites need some milkshake, do they?” asked the demon, unbuttoning his pants.

Castiel’s eyes snapped open. He sat upright, shivering, his posture defensive, but there was no denying that the manacles were causing him pain; the collar on his neck shifted a little as Dean watched.

“Okay, so let’s give ’em what they want. You know the drill.”

Castiel didn’t move.

The demon sighed. “Lie down, you useless bag of bones.”

“Why don’t you just let me die?” Castiel asked, his voice so deep and sore-sounding that Dean winced at it. 

“Because you’re a good hard fuck, that’s why. Stop asking stupid questions, you dumb sack of shit, and roll over.”

“No.”

The demon slapped him. Castiel fell backwards and was flipped onto his stomach before he could respond, biting off a cry as his face was forced into the sheets. “I have to do everything myself,” the demon muttered, holding Castiel down one-handed in the position Dean had seen so many times as he’d scrolled through the recordings. Castiel was helpless: he tried to wriggle free, but the chains stretched taut around his arms and the demon was just too damn strong for him. 

Dean averted his eyes as the bastard slid into his friend – and then blinked in surprise as the demon said something in a language he didn’t understand. Grabbing the witch’s notes, Dean scanned them for something that looked similar... and his heart sank as he realized all three of the incantations she’d suggested started the same way. 

Dean had to watch more.

Except... he couldn’t. He kept the sound on, listening for more of the spell, but he couldn’t look at how the demon rammed himself into Castiel’s body. It was too animalistic, too perverse, and Dean felt nausea rising as he heard how Castiel’s gasps changed from raw defiance to something guttural and despairing. It went on for a while – Dean looked, eventually, and found it was at the twelve-minute mark – and still the demon pumped away, grunting and occasionally cursing, until finally Dean heard a different kind of movement and steeled himself to look at the screen again.

The demon was now sitting on Castiel’s back, thighs either side of his waist, and Dean recognized this as the clip he’d seen when he’d skimmed through this video yesterday. 

“Let’s do this,” the demon announced, and let loose a stream of words that sounded like gibberish.

Dean checked his notes. There! The third incantation! 

“Motherfucker,” cried the demon, and Dean looked at the screen again just as he came all over Castiel’s bare back. Instantly, the Oxidiens started to glow, the light strange and distorted in black-and-white. Seconds later, the demon lifted Castiel’s arms behind him and rubbed his penis over his wrists, before crawling up his body to do the same to his collar. Dean watched, disgusted, as he then wiped up the semen from Castiel’s skin and smeared it over the metal bands, hissing a few more words of the spell. 

Then, job apparently done, he climbed off Castiel’s body, wiping sticky fingers on the sheets and reaching for his pants.

“There you go for a few more days, sunshine – all fed and happy.”

Castiel lay still, panting as the glow around his wrists and neck died down. Then he twisted until he was on his side, lifting his knees into a fetal position. He curled into a ball and lay silently, his body trembling, all defiance gone.

The demon pulled on his pants, buttoned them and then stood for a moment, looking down at him on the bed. “What are you?” he asked.

“I am an angel of the Lord,” Castiel replied, his voice dull and listless.

“What are you?” 

“I am an angel of the Lord.”

The demon laughed and patted him on the shoulder. “You’re a filthy angel whore. Get used to it.”

The video ended. 

Dean closed the laptop and looked across at Castiel lying motionless and sweat-soaked on the bed.

Morality-wise, this was a shitshow. But if Dean didn’t help him right now, Castiel was going to die. And, slowly, Dean was starting to realize that the thought of having sex with him wasn’t something grotesque or repulsive: he did like Castiel, after all, and over the past few days – however it had happened – he’d come to acknowledge that perhaps that had crossed over into something else. He wanted to feel his mouth on his cock again, and do other things with him, too... hot, sweaty, erotic things. 

But Castiel was ill and seriously fucked-up, and Dean couldn’t enjoy this too much. What would that say about him, if he did?

“It’s okay, Cas,” he told him, even though it really wasn’t. “I’m gonna make you feel better.”

 

* * *

 

First he cleaned up the blood from the manacles. Castiel’s eyelids flickered, but he didn’t react in any other way, and Dean spent a little while staring down at him, wondering how best to do this. To do _him_.

Was this really happening? 

But then Castiel moaned, so quietly Dean almost didn’t catch it, and he knew it was time. Consent issues be damned; it was too late for that. Castiel had already given him a blowjob and it had been fantastic. He could do more. Dean wanted it. He knew it was bad, he knew it was wrong, but he wanted it. And this time, it would save Castiel’s life. 

“Hey,” he murmured, leaning down and pressing his lips against Castiel’s ear. “It’s time. I’m going to help you.”

Castiel’s eyelids quivered again, but he didn’t move. 

Dean kissed him on the forehead. He kissed him on the cheek. He paused for a moment, deliberating, and then kissed him on the lips. 

There was no response. 

“Come on, Cas, you want this,” Dean whispered, licking around his mouth gently. “This will save your life. You can trust me. Let’s blow this thing and go home.”

Again, nothing. 

Sighing, Dean pulled off Castiel’s t-shirt and removed his pajama bottoms, efficient and determined. Then he ran a hand down Castiel’s chest, trailing a line through the sweat that had gathered on his skin since his last attack. His fingers curled in pubic hair, which halted him for a few seconds as he dealt with the new sensation; something he only rarely experienced with women, who seemed to think any hair below their eyebrows was an invader that had to be removed. He tangled his fingers in the wet strands deliberately, playfully, feeling his own heartbeat speed up in both fear and arousal. _Castiel was a man, not a woman: what the fuck was he doing here?_

Castiel closed his eyes. Dean drew in a scared breath. 

_Just go with it,_ a voice in the back of his head told him. _Don’t be scared._

“Fuck it,” he muttered, running a finger down the soft line of Castiel’s penis, teasing him, feeling the heat of his skin. He reached beneath it and cupped it in his hand, feeling the weight, trying to familiarize himself with something that felt both alien and weirdly familiar. 

Castiel drew in a shocked, shaking gasp. He shifted a little, opening his legs wider.

It was an invitation. His stomach swooping in fear and, there was no denying it, _lust_ , Dean undressed and climbed onto the mattress. He kneeled between Castiel’s legs and dipped his head, licking first one thigh, and then the other. Castiel moaned and shuddered, and Dean took that as encouragement and blew gently on his cock, following it up with a long, languid lick from the base to the tip. He watched in both relief and apprehension as it started to harden, and felt an answering, obscene twitch from his own cock in return.

And then without warning Castiel suddenly sat up, making Dean jump. He was pale and sweating, breathing hard, his eyes dark and wild. 

“Fuck me,” he begged, reaching out a shaking, insistent hand. It landed on Dean’s shoulder and fingers dug uncomfortably into his skin. 

“That’s the plan,” Dean replied, his voice wavering.

Castiel made a sound that was half-relief, half-ecstasy. He pulled Dean down on top of him, wriggling so that they were crotch-to-crotch, and wrapped his legs around the back of Dean’s legs so tightly that Dean actually took a second to admire the strength in his thigh muscles. But then Castiel thrusted upwards, rubbing against him perfectly, and he gasped and bent his head so that his lips rested on Castiel’s as though that was exactly where they were supposed to go. 

“ _Fuck me,_ ” Castiel sighed against his mouth, and suddenly Dean found himself kissing him with a passion that he hadn’t even known he was capable of. Castiel thrusted upwards again and again, still stronger than Dean despite his diminished powers, and the motion of their cocks sliding together was _incredible_. Dean had to keep breaking off the kiss, gasping in air, before Castiel would grab him by the neck and move him back again, sliding a tongue inside his mouth and moaning that deep, vibrating moan that had sent Dean over the edge during that unforgettable blowjob. His mouth was warm and welcoming, tasting of nothing but still pleasant, and the sensation of those moans being released into Dean’s mouth was mind-bogglingly erotic. He moaned back, jerking a little as Castiel unexpectedly reached down a hand and slid it between their bodies, stroking his cock as though it was his own.

After a few minutes Dean couldn’t help it: he had to lean back, pressing back against Castiel’s thighs so that they released him, falling onto his knees between Castiel’s legs as his cock was stroked and squeezed. Castiel stared up at him impassively as he shuddered and threw his head back, knowing he was getting close now... but then suddenly the hand on his penis disappeared.

“Don’t stop,” Dean squeaked, disoriented, but Castiel had other ideas. He rolled onto his hands and knees, shoved a pillow beneath his hips and lay flat, his buttocks lifted slightly. He looked back over his shoulder and Dean felt as though his heart had stopped dead at the sheer, unadulterated lust on his face. 

“Do it,” Castiel told him, spreading his legs.

Dean realized he hadn’t prepared for this: he didn’t have any lube, nothing to make this easier. He hesitated, freaked out, and Castiel frowned at him. “Fuck me,” he said, sounding angry. “Come on. I’m your filthy angel whore. I’m yours. Fuck me ’til I scream.”

 _This is so wrong,_ Dean thought desperately, but the words were so crude, so obscene, so fucking erotic that he couldn’t help himself. He spat on his hand and wiped it on his cock – trying to forget that he’d seen demons do the same thing in those videos; he wasn’t a demon, _he wasn’t a fucking demon_ – and then he moved forward and placed the tip of his cock on Castiel’s ass. “Fuck me,” Castiel moaned again, and so Dean did just that.

He had just enough sense to remember that he had to say the first words of the spell as he entered him. The manacles glowed for a few seconds, responding, and then Dean couldn’t think about anything except that he was inside Castiel and fucking him, trying to get a rhythm going. It was too tight and awkward for it to be comfortable but at the same time it felt magnificent: there was so much pressure on his cock and it was so hot in there, so fucking hot, and then Castiel wriggled his hips beneath him, mewling like a cat, and things began to loosen up and Dean found his stride; a burning, beautiful rhythm that felt _so fucking good_ , and he gasped and pumped as hard as he could, groaning Castiel’s name in rapture, not caring about anything except that he was finally fucking him, he’d wanted to fuck him for years and now, at last, he was inside him and he felt so phenomenal he wanted to scream–

“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” Castiel was pleading, his hands twisting in the sheets, and Dean growled low and deep in his chest and pumped faster, _harder_ , lost in bliss, dimly realizing that he had to be hurting his partner, until suddenly it was all too much and he felt himself about to lose control. 

_The spell!_

Dean grabbed the crumpled piece of paper from the mattress beside him and read out the next part so quickly that his tongue barely formed the words. Then he dropped it and pumped again and again, so close now, so fucking close, he was going to explode, he was going to die, and Castiel felt so good, so perfect, he fitted him like he’d always meant to be inside him...

“ _I love you,_ ” he gasped, and then his world was nothing but fire and liquid.

He lost himself for a short while, panting. But finally he recovered and looked down to see the Oxidiens glowing beneath him; remembering what he was supposed to do, his hands shaking, he pulled out of Castiel and lifted his wrists. Wincing in disgust, he rubbed himself on the metal cuffs and then moved up his body to touch his cock to the collar. 

What next? His head was full of shadows and he felt dizzy, but he remembered the final part. For a moment he was at a loss: he’d emptied himself inside Castiel, after all, rather than on the more easy-to-get to position of Castiel’s back, as the demon had done. But when he checked he discovered that some of his issue had spilled and – feeling faintly nauseous – he wiped it onto his fingers and diligently smeared it over the metal. At the last minute, he remembered he was supposed to read out the final words of the spell, so he did it at a rush.

The Oxidiens responded instantly, glowing with a steady, strong pulse that seemed to signal _contentment_. 

“You like that, huh?” Dean muttered, staring at them in creeped-out fascination. 

They pulsed a few more times and then the light dimmed. Castiel sighed, his entire body relaxing, and it was as though Dean hadn’t realized quite how tension-filled the angel had been until he was suddenly released from whatever the manacles had been doing to him. 

Satisfied that it was all over – for now, anyway – Dean felt his body go limp and rolled to lie beside Castiel. He lay quietly for a while, processing, unable to believe what had just happened. 

Eventually, he turned his head on the pillow to meet Castiel’s gaze. “Hey.”

Castiel stared at him, his eyes red-rimmed and dark, but seemingly clear of confusion. “Thank you,” he said, his voice almost unnaturally deep. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t realize this was what you needed,” Dean said, thinking back to the times Castiel had grabbed so desperately for his crotch. But Castiel didn’t seem to hear him; his gaze flicked to Dean’s hand, and to Dean’s puzzlement, he pulled it towards him. “What are you–”

He stopped, stunned, as Castiel started to lick his fingers. He put each one in his mouth, sucking them gently, cleaning them carefully, and the whole time he stared right into Dean’s eyes, unblinking. 

Dean held his breath and wondered how long it would take for him to get hard again because this was the most personal, erotic thing anyone had ever done to him. 

“There,” Castiel said after a while, releasing him. He licked his lips. “You taste good.”

Dean swallowed. For a moment he believed him, and then he understood, in a devastating crash back to reality, that this wasn’t intimacy. Castiel wasn’t looking after him or wanting them to have a moment of bonding; this was the kind of disgusting, impersonal thing the demons had trained him to do. 

And with that, he felt a rush of guilt.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you, Cas,” he said, remembering how hard he’d fucked him. “I kind of... lost control.”

“I needed to be punished.”

Dean frowned, moving himself up onto one elbow. “No. Don’t you say that, Cas, it’s not true. Nobody has the right to punish you.”

Castiel looked a little confused, his forehead crinkling. “Yes, they do. I’m wrong. I’m always wrong.”

Dean stared at him for a while, his thoughts scattered. “They lied to you,” he said eventually. “This is the truth now. All of this is your truth now.”

“Was I good?” Castiel asked, his face clouding over. “Did you like it? You seemed to like it, but maybe I did something wrong.”

“Oh god,” Dean sighed, dropping back down onto the bed. He placed an arm over his face and closed his eyes. “Yes, Cas, you were good. You were really fucking good.”

Silence fell. When Dean finally looked over at Castiel, he seemed to be asleep, his face smooth and peaceful. 

“You were really fucking good,” Dean murmured again, feeling sad. He stroked Castiel’s cheek softly. “You were so good.”

 

* * *

 

Sam came back that night, and Dean didn’t ask where he’d been. His brother walked into the kitchen and set down some groceries, placing his hands in his coat pockets expectantly. 

“How’s Cas?” he asked, sounding nervous.

Dean had been drinking, because he was Dean Winchester, and that’s what he usually did when he’d argued with his brother. 

“He’s fine. Panic over for a few more days.” The Oxidiens would need another meal before the spell could be broken on the seventh, but Dean wasn’t thinking that far ahead yet. He was still trying to come to terms with what had happened that day. 

Hence the drinking.

Sam nodded, seeming uncomfortable. “Look, uh, I’m sorry you had to go through that, Dean,” he said. “That kind of thing must really mess with your head.”

Dean played with a bottle cap in his hand, digging the edges into his thumb. “I’m just focusing on the positive,” he replied. “Those metal parasites are happy, Cas is still breathing. That’s all we got until we try to yank them off him next week.”

“I got hold of some copper wire,” Sam said. “I can start making the symbols.”

Dean didn’t reply, staring down at the bottle cap.

After a short silence, Sam sighed and turned to go. He’d just gone up the steps when Dean called his name.

“What?” his brother turned back, frowning.

“I had to watch them, Sam. I _had to._ They couldn’t get away with it.”

Sam studied him, then nodded slowly. “Yeah, I get that. You were doing something terrible, but for the right reasons. It’s a very...” He stopped, thinking. “... _Winchester_ thing to do.”

That made Dean snort. He looked up at his brother. “What they did to him, Sam... I won’t forget that. Ever. It was... you have no idea, man.”

Sam shook his head. “Those videos, they were personal, Dean. You should’ve waited for Castiel to get better, then asked him for permission. Maybe he knows who the demons are already! It’s just... I dunno. If it were me, I wouldn’t want anyone to see them.”

“Me neither, but Cas isn’t like us, Sam.” He frowned down at his beer. “He might not get better, either. You said yourself: those things on his body could kill him when they go. And anyway, he’s totally cracked. We could free him from those shackles and he never gets his mind back. He could be nutty as a fruitcake for the next thousand years.”

“Don’t count him out yet. He was nutty as a fruitcake once before, remember? And he got over it. He’s strong.”

Dean thought about how Castiel kept telling him that godawful phrase, over and over – _I’m a filthy angel whore_ – and how when he looked at Dean, all he saw was a captor who wanted to fuck him. 

“I guess we’ll see,” he said, trying hard to keep emotion out of his voice.

Sam stared at him for a few moments, then reached into one of the grocery bags he’d left on the counter. “Here,” he said. “I got you this.”

It was a pie. Dean looked at it, knowing he wasn’t hungry, but he appreciated the peace offering regardless. “Thanks, Sammy.”

“I don’t agree with what you did, Dean. But I understand it.”

He left, and Dean saw that the bottle cap he’d been pressing into his thumb had finally drawn blood. 

 

* * *

 

Sam stayed with Castiel that night while Dean slept a deep and dreamless sleep. When he went in to check on them the next morning, Sam was reading a book and Castiel was lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling with that familiar infinity gaze of his. 

“Hey. How is he?”

Sam shrugged. “Barely moved all night. It’s like this is his default mode.”

Dean stared at the angel for a few moments, trying to get his voice out of his head ( _fuck me, fuck me, fuck me_ ). “I guess so,” he said, and went to make a breakfast he wasn’t hungry for.

 

* * *

 

Nothing changed for a few days, and then suddenly the Oxidiens were hungry again.

The brothers had been taking it in turns to sit with Castiel, sometimes together, sometimes in shifts if the other had something to do. They’d spent an entire day twisting copper wire into sigils. After that all they could do was wait, and the whole time Dean had privately considered watching more of the videos but knew that he couldn’t, not yet. Sam was right – he should wait for Castiel to wake up, to get back to his old self, to see what he said about it.

But he needed to know more. It wasn’t just about identifying Castiel’s torturers, not really, although that was still a huge part of why Dean wanted to carry on watching. There was more to it than that. _Why had Castiel said his name that time?_ The moment haunted him, and not just at night when he lay in bed and saw the images from the recording he’d watched replay in his mind. No, he thought about it all the time: the fact that Castiel had no idea who Dean was today, in this reality, and yet back then at some point Castiel had clearly associated sex with him. He’d been high on heroin, yes – or whatever Sitchwell had given him, Dean had no idea if he’d tweaked the usual formula somehow – but he’d automatically moaned Dean’s name as though he’d been imagining having sex with _him_ , not a demon.

Why was that?

Dean remembered how it had felt to fuck Castiel, how out-of-this-world it had been to be inside him. He also remembered how, just as he was losing his mind from the ecstasy of it all, he’d realized he’d wanted to do this to Castiel almost from the start of their relationship – to taste him, to feel his body, to bury himself in him. Castiel was an itch he’d never been able to scratch, an obsession he’d never admitted to himself until that very moment when he’d been deep inside him, fucking him for all he was worth in order to save his life.

 _I love you._ He’d actually said that, just as he’d climaxed. _I love you._

It may have been a moment of madness, said when Dean wasn’t firing on all thrusters mentally – although he’d been firing in other, more physical ways, of course. But he’d still said it. 

Was it true?

If he did love Castiel, did Castiel love him too? Was that the reason he’d been imagining having sex with him? Was pretending that the demon raping him was Dean the only way he could get through it? Had he done it again with other partners, or had that time with Sitchwell been an aberration?

Dean was pondering the implications just as Castiel cried out in pain from across the corridor. He jumped off his bed and ran into the bedroom just as Castiel rolled into a ball on the mattress, whimpering, that weird, unsettling glow pouring from his wrists and collar. Sam was standing, staring, and the glow wasn’t bright enough to hurt their eyes – not yet – and so Dean stood beside him and watched as the Oxidiens did their hungry dance across Castiel’s skin, slower and less angry than last time, but still causing pain as their needles retracted and then jabbed into innocent flesh.

“That is just _wrong,_ ” Sam muttered, grossed out, as the light finally died and Castiel lay panting. 

“You’re tellin’ me,” Dean replied, and he sat on the bed beside Castiel, stroking his hair un-selfconsciously. “Shhh, it’s over now, it’s done.”

Sam stared at them both for a few moments, his jaw twitching, before announcing, “You’re going to have to do it again.” 

“Yeah.”

“You don’t think he can hold out for another two days?”

Dean shook his head. “By this time tomorrow he’ll be in agony. There’s no way.”

Sam nodded, and when Dean glanced up at him, he thought his brother looked tired and older, somehow. “Hey, you okay?”

“I’m just...” Sam looked away, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “I’m sick of all this, you know? All this pain and misery, and the way we have to keep doing things we don’t want to do just to try to keep moving along, living our lives. It’s not fair.”

Dean shrugged. “Yeah, preachin’ to the choir here.”

“He was gone for _five years_ ,” Sam said, angry now. “Five goddamn years, and we had no idea. Nothing. And the whole time he was being tortured and raped, and those crazy fucking _things_ on his body were sucking his blood and making it worse. If they need feeding every three or four days, that means someone had to do that spell every three or four days – over and over and over again. Cas never got any peace, he was never left alone. It just went on and on. It just – the thought of it – it makes me sick, Dean. It must’ve been like being in Hell.”

Dean looked down at Castiel, who was lying motionless beside him, not quite expressionless but still somewhere far away. “At least in Hell, you get to do something else once they’ve broken you,” he murmured.

Sam fell silent. Dean waited a little while, then stood. “Look, it sucks. Of course it sucks. But in two days we’re getting these things off him, and then if we’re really, spectacularly lucky, Cas comes back to us. But if he doesn’t – if he doesn’t remember diddly squat about us, or bein’ an angel, or life before the demons – then we’ll still look after him. He’s got friends, Sam, and that’s all that matters now. He’s not alone.”

His brother nodded slowly, gazing down at the floor. “When are you going to do the spell?”

Dean felt a rush of embarrassment; he couldn’t help it. “I dunno. A few more hours, maybe.”

“Maybe I’ll go catch a movie later. Give you some alone time.”

“That would be good, yeah.”

Sam picked up his book and made to leave. “I want to get those bastards too, Dean. Every single one of them.”

“I know you do, Sammy. I know.”

 

* * *

 

Dean left Castiel for long enough to down a few beers, trying to build up a buzz, to prepare himself for what was going to happen next. It probably wasn’t the greatest of ideas to get drunk before casting a life-or-death spell, but then Dean spent half his life drunk so what difference did it make, really? He stalled for as long as he could and then, taking a deep, steadying breath, he left the library, took off his clothes and joined Castiel on the bed.

“Party time,” he announced with false cheerfulness.

Castiel didn’t react as Dean removed his clothing, but the moment he leaned down and kissed his lips it was as though an electrical current had shot through him. Hands reached up and pulled him down so that they were skin to skin, the speed of the movement making Dean jump and then tense up. 

“ _Fuck me,_ ” Castiel hissed.

And just like that, Dean’s heart sank. The phrase that had seemed so wanton, so hot, so extraordinarily _personal_ a few days ago was actually what Castiel said every time he was with someone. 

He should’ve realized. He’d seen it in the videos, after all, but somehow it hadn’t clicked until just now. How many demons had he said it to over the years? How many other creatures? They’d trained him to say it. It was a reflex, nothing more.

“Shit,” Dean whispered, pulling away. His skin goosefleshed and he shivered. This wasn’t erotic; this was rape. He’d been trying to forget, telling himself it didn’t matter, that the circumstances made it okay, but he was wrong. Castiel didn’t really want him; he wanted anybody, anything, whether it was to calm down those damn creatures on his skin or otherwise. And Dean wanted Castiel, yes, but _not like this_.

“What did I do?” Castiel asked, noticing Dean’s hesitation, his eyes widening. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. What do you like? I can do whatever you want.”

“It’s not you, Cas,” Dean replied, placing a hand on his cheek. But the simple gesture, something he’d done many times before with his friend, seemed loaded with a million problems now, and he lowered his hand again. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I hate that we have to do this.”

Castiel’s eyes widened even more. “No, no, I can make it good. Don’t hate it. Please don’t, please–” His voice was panicked. He struggled to sit upright and Dean moved to let him, startled. “What can I do? Tell me what you like, please, I can do it! Don’t punish me, please don’t punish me, I don’t understand what I did wrong.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong!” Dean said, and he raised his arms to hold Castiel still, but the angel gasped and flinched away, apparently thinking that Dean was about to punch him.

They both froze, breathing hard. Dean waited a few moments, feeling as though the temperature in the room had fallen around them, and then said softly, “It’s okay, Cas. Calm down. It’s all good. Come on, let’s feed those things on your wrists, okay?”

Castiel blinked at him, and then his gaze fell down to Dean’s penis. He reached out a trembling hand and stroked it, tentatively, and Dean forced a smile. “There, see? It’s all good, Cas. You keep on doin’ that. Just keep on doing that.”

But for a while it felt as though nothing was going to happen, and Dean tried desperately to control how freaked out he was, concentrating on the touch of flesh on his skin rather than any of the baggage that came with it. It didn’t work, and it wasn’t until Castiel pushed him flat onto the bed and swallowed him that Dean finally felt himself starting to come to life. Once he did, however, things progressed at speed – there was no way to ignore how fantastic Castiel was at giving a blowjob, and soon Dean was sweating and growling, wriggling under Castiel’s lips, distantly astonished that this was even happening to him, but going with it anyway.

He grew harder and harder until, finally, Castiel sat back on his heels and stared down at his cock contemplatively. Then he looked up to meet Dean’s eyes; his face was flushed but his expression seemed vacant, somehow. For a long moment they stared at each other, and Dean was just opening his mouth to ask _what next?_ when Castiel did something utterly unexpected. 

Raising himself up on his knees, he eased himself down onto Dean’s erect cock with the ease and skill of someone who’d done it a million times before.

The weight of his body made Dean cry out in shock. Castiel smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile; it was pained and bitter. And then he started to move up and down, his back ramrod-straight, balancing on his knees. 

Dean choked, then remembered he had to announce the first words of the spell. He said them; the metal glowed red on Castiel’s neck and wrists, and then there was nothing but someone sitting on his cock, fucking him slowly and calmly, tight and warm and luxurious around his flesh. With every movement Dean couldn’t help but moan, overwhelmed, and he tried to thrust upwards himself but Castiel was too heavy, so he had to just lie there and take it, totally helpless but Jesus Christ it felt like nothing he’d ever–

“What am I?” Castiel asked him suddenly. 

“...what?”

“What am I?”

Dean felt as though he was losing his mind. “I don’t understand.”

Castiel slapped him. It came out of nowhere; a sharp, stinging slap that was more for dramatic effect than an attempt to cause pain. “ _What am I?_ ” Castiel hissed, arching his back until he was leaning over Dean’s face. 

“Seriously, Cas, what the–”

Castiel pinned his arms beside him on the bed. Dean stared up at him, horrified and a little scared, but at the same time he was so turned on that he nearly came right there and then. 

“What. Am. I?” Castiel demanded, his voice deep and dangerous.

Finally, Dean got it. “You’re... you’re... a filthy angel whore.”

“Say it again,” Castiel ordered, and he ground his hips against Dean’s body.

“You’re a filthy angel _whore!_ Oh shit, Cas, this is so wrong, this isn’t you speaking–”

But Castiel sat upright again, his body filled with power and majesty, and Dean almost whimpered as he increased his rhythm, moving up and down so fast that finally, blessedly, Dean knew it was time. Panic struck him as he realized that he couldn’t remember the spellwords – he tried to reach the piece of paper with them written on, and luckily Castiel released his wrists to allow him the movement. After he’d read them aloud, that was it: Castiel slammed down hard and Dean almost howled, seeing stars as he came harder than he could remember in _years_.

It was almost enough to make him pass out, but suddenly Castiel wasn’t sitting on him any more. He was kneeling beside him, holding out his wrists expectantly, and Dean reluctantly performed the rest of the spell while trying to remember how to breathe.

The Oxidiens glowed and dimmed. Castiel slumped, sighing, and then that was it. They were done. 

It took Dean a long time to recover himself. 

Finally, he sat up and knelt before Castiel on the mattress, wiping his fingers on the sheets in disgust; he didn’t want them licked clean this time. Castiel was staring dully at nothing, trembling a little, and Dean’s heart seemed to flutter as he studied him. That magnificent angel he’d met all those years ago reduced to this: a broken, tormented slave who recited mantras taught to him by demons, who fucked on command, who begged to be raped, who had learned how to do anything it took to make his captors happy. And yet, just for a moment back then, Castiel had seemed powerful again, in control; he’d slapped Dean and ordered him around, bending him to his will. 

But it was all a farce. Some psycho demon had taught him to do that. This wasn’t the Castiel he used to know. This was... someone else.

Dean reached out and held Castiel’s chin, lifting his head so that they could meet gazes. But Castiel’s eyes were empty. There was nothing in there at all. Dean couldn’t see his friend.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, and unable to help himself, he drew Castiel into a tight, desperate hug. 

At first Castiel didn’t react, and then Dean felt his breath on his ear as he whispered, “Do you want more?”

“No,” Dean gritted out. “No, that’s the last time, Cas. We’re never doing that again. The day after tomorrow those parasites are coming off your body and you’ll remember me and nobody will ever treat you like this again for as long as you live.”

Castiel sighed, the breath warm on Dean’s shoulder. “I liked it,” he mumbled. “I always like it.”

Dean squeezed him tighter, his face grim. “No,” he said. “No, you don’t.”

Castiel didn’t say anything else. 

 

* * *

 

Dean could barely function. He kept looking at the clock, counting down the minutes, willing time to move faster so that they could remove the manacles. He had no idea if Castiel would survive, or if his memory would return if he did, or even if Dean _wanted_ his memory to return, because the thought of his friend being aware of everything that had happened to him over the past five years – the thought of Castiel remembering having Dean inside him... god, it was more than he could bear, and he had no idea how Castiel could bear it either. 

But time moved at its normal pace. Castiel lay lifeless on new sheets, wearing clean clothes, his body scrubbed of everything Dean had done to him. Sam kept studying the spell to kill the Oxidiens, seemingly oblivious to the torment his brother was going through – although, being Sam, Dean realized that he’d guessed some of it. And Dean... Dean just paced, drinking beer after beer and watching the clock. 

There was a little voice at the back of his head, though. 

_Watch more._

He needed to know if Castiel had kept saying his name or not. He needed to know more than anything. 

And so, the night before they would finally be able to perform the spell, as Sam slept in Castiel’s room in the uncomfortable chair he and his brother and come to know so well, Dean made his decision.

 

* * *

 

The first few videos after Sitchwell had given Castiel the drugs were the same as usual – and how disgusting it was that Dean could look at Castiel being violated by demons and monsters as “usual”. But there was nothing different about them at all, if you excused Castiel, perhaps, being a little less eager to fight back.

The fourth recording showed two demons holding Castiel down and injecting two full needles of fluid into his neck.

Dean watched, repelled and yet somehow hypnotized, as Castiel became passive and pliant. He didn’t object at all as one demon made him suck his cock while the other, after watching him for a while, began to fuck him doggy-style, slapping him hard on the buttocks as though he’d watched too many cheap porn films of men doing that to women. It was sickening, pathetic. Castiel wasn’t really conscious, and yet he did whatever the demons ordered him to do, moving slowly, looking dazed yet, weirdly, content.

Dean swallowed down his disgust and, as calmly as he could, took screenshots of the demons’ faces, then skipped to further on in the recording to see if he could hear Castiel say his name. 

_What are you doing?_ said the confused little voice in his head, the one that had also been persuading him to watch the videos again. _You’re sick and twisted, do you know that? Are you getting off on this? Are you hard?_

“Dean...” Castiel sighed, as one of the demons came on his chest. 

Dean felt his heart break. 

 

* * *

 

In every recording, the demons injected Castiel over and over again, and every time Castiel became more pliable, more willing to perform for them. Dean watched video after video, not bothering to take screenshots any more, just dipping into each one to watch how his friend’s behavior had changed over time. Months passed, then years, and the more recordings Dean watched, the quieter Castiel became – less able to fight back, less of an angel and more of an object. It wasn’t just the drugs: it was as though the way they made Castiel feel had spilled over into all the other sessions, whittling away at him. Perhaps they’d messed with his mind. Perhaps he’d just reached the end of his strength.

By the time Dean skipped to the four-year mark, the Castiel on the screen was the Castiel he knew today: vacant and empty until someone wanted to fuck him, and then he was willing and energetic.

But every time someone gave him the drugs, he’d wriggle and moan and say Dean’s name, lost in a world in which he was with him instead of whatever creature was lying with him in reality.

Finally reaching his limit, Dean closed his laptop. He stared at nothing for a long time. He felt as though he should be crying. He felt as though he should be angry. But he felt neither of those things: instead, he just felt hollow. 

Castiel had used his name as some sort of shield to protect himself for years. And yet, when he’d finally had the chance to fuck him for real, he’d had no idea who he was. 

Dean rubbed grit out of his eyes and looked at the clock. 

It was the seventh of the month at last. It was time to take those things off Castiel’s body.

 

* * *

 

They half-walked, half-carried Castiel into the library, where Sam had arranged the copper sigils they’d sculpted into a circle around a space on the floor. They made Castiel lie flat in the middle and he looked around, seeming to be a little confused, but he didn’t respond in any other way. 

The manacles, however, shuddered on his wrists, forcing a cut-off gasp from Castiel’s lips. 

Dean shot his brother a worried look. _They knew._

Sam stared at him, wide-eyed, then lit some candles and pulled out the witch’s book. “Okay,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Here goes.”

“Wait.” Dean climbed over the copper shapes and knelt beside Castiel. “Hey, Cas. We’re going to get these things off you now – do you understand?”

Castiel just stared up at him, his eyes narrowed in pain. 

“It’s goin’ to hurt, but then it’s not. And these things will never hurt you again. Come on, you have to understand this. It’s important.”

“Important?” Castiel said vaguely, his forehead creasing.

“You’re going to be free,” Dean replied, squeezing his hand, trying to ignore that blood that had started to trickle from under the manacle on his wrist. “You hear me? You’ll be free. These things will fall off you and you’ll be yourself again. The _real_ you.”

Castiel said wearily, “I’m a filthy angel whore.”

Dean heard Sam make a choking sound behind him. 

“No,” Dean said firmly. “You’re Castiel. And you’re coming back to us.”

He rose and stepped out of the circle. 

Sam, his face pale, read out the incantation. 

It happened slowly at first: a dim red glow, followed by the metal bands juddering and sliding against Castiel’s skin. The light grew brighter and brighter, matched by light that started to pour from the copper sigils arranged around the floor – a molten, heated light that smelled industrial, like a furnace. The brighter the sigils grew, the more the Oxidiens moved, twisting and writhing so that they flipped upside-down, their needles pointing upwards, coated in blood and dripping, before flipping back again in what seemed like agony. Sam read on, barely even glancing at the scene before him as he tried to finish the page as soon as possible, and then Castiel began to scream, arching and convulsing on the floor as the Oxidiens dug their needles into him over and over, moving up and down his arms. He stopped suddenly, raising his hands to his neck, and Dean – squinting through the glare – could see that the collar was sinking into his throat, choking him. 

“Hurry,” he snapped, glancing at his brother, but Sam didn’t even hear him: he was reading as fast as he could, wincing as the light became brighter and brighter and brighter, and then suddenly there was a rush of warm, metallic air and everything went dark.

Sam stopped, panting. He lowered the book. He and Dean gazed at the scene before them. The copper sigils had melted into hard lumps on the floor. Castiel lay surrounded by them, unconscious. 

And the Oxidiens lay on the floor too, bent and twisted into ugly shapes. 

“You did it,” Dean told his brother, and tentatively picked his way through the heated metal to kneel beside Castiel. He poked at one of the manacles: it was cold and still. The sigils on its rusted surface had disappeared. The needles that had dug so viciously into Castiel’s body were warped and melted. 

Castiel’s eyes were closed and his face was slack. His arms and neck were bleeding profusely from dozens, if not hundreds of cuts. Dean ignored them for a moment, though, and placed a hand on his chest, feeling for movement. When none was forthcoming he placed fingers on the blood on his neck, checking for a pulse.

“Is he alive?” 

Dean glanced up at his brother, feeling sweat drying on his forehead. “Just. There’s a pulse, but it’s faint.”

“I’ll grab some bandages,” Sam announced, and was gone.

“You’re gonna be okay now, Cas,” Dean said softly, stroking Castiel’s cheek. There was no response; he was firmly out of it. How long before he woke up? Would he wake up?

What would he remember? 

 

* * *

 

They carried Castiel back to his bed, where they cleaned and bandaged the wounds on his wrists and neck as gently as they could. All of them were too small to need stitches, but the sheer number of them was staggering, and a huge bruise was forming in a ring around Castiel’s neck. Dean had no illusions that if Castiel had been human, the tightness of the band in its death throes would’ve crushed his windpipe and killed him. As it was, he remained completely unconscious – more out of it than they’d seen him since his return. He felt cold, too, which was new, and so once they’d finished with his injuries Sam threw several blankets over him and they turned up the heating in the room. 

Then they stood back, regarding the body on the bed thoughtfully.

“Do you think he’ll know us when he wakes up?” Sam asked.

Dean sighed, suddenly feeling old and tired. “I guess we just have to wait and see.”

 

* * *

 

An entire day passed.

Then another.

Dean sat by Castiel’s bed, mentally urging him to wake up, but Castiel’s eyelids didn’t even twitch. He could be in a coma for all they knew. He just lay there, unmoving, and Dean could only stare at him for a little while on each visit before having to leave, his emotions twisted into knots. He wanted him to wake up, and he didn’t. He wanted to talk to his old friend again, but he was scared that Castiel was gone forever. He wanted to know for sure. He didn’t. It was... horrible.

They checked his injuries on the second day, and the needlemarks had become nothing more than tiny red dots on his flesh, and the bruise around his throat was fading. That was a good sign, if nothing else. 

But still Castiel didn’t wake up.

 

* * *

 

“It’s gotta be a rougarou, Sam!”

“Carlos said it was eating a corpse, not fresh meat. My money’s on a ghoul.”

Dean drummed his fingers on the table impatiently. “Yeah, and he also said it didn’t look human. Come on, you’ve seen a rougarou, Sam. You couldn’t confuse one of those suckers with one of us.”

“But rougarou don’t eat dead people.”

“They do once they’ve killed them.”

“After two days? That would be like you eating, I dunno, a two-week-old burger, Dean. You’d puke first.”

“I’ve eaten burgers after longer than that. Gives ’em flavor.”

Sam grunted, shaking his head. “You’re a freak.”

“Yep, and so’s this guy. A rougarou.”

“Look, it’s living in a graveyard. _Ghoul._ ”

“Well, maybe it was a victim of the sub-prime housing crash, Sam. It’s not a ghoul. I’d bet my life on it.”

“Would you bet Carlos’s life?”

Dean stopped. That was a good point. “No. Yes. I dunno. Look, in the end it’s his decision, right? We can’t decide for him.”

“No, but it would help if we could–” Sam broke off, staring past Dean’s shoulder. “...Oh. Hey!”

Dean turned. 

Castiel was standing by the entrance to the library, barefoot, blankets draped over his shoulders. He was staring at them nervously, his eyes wide, and when he saw that they’d both seen him he took a step backwards in fear.

“Hey, hey,” Dean said, echoing his brother. He rose to his feet slowly, trying to not to startle him. “It’s good to see you on your feet, Cas.”

“How are you feeling?” Sam asked, remaining in his seat.

Castiel looked from one of them to the other, unblinking. He really did look terrified. 

“It’s okay,” Dean said, beckoning him into the room. “You’re safe. Look, I’ll sit down again if you want. Come in, it’s fine.”

He sat back in his chair and glanced at Sam, who met his eyes briefly and looked away. A silent message passed between them: _keep still, don’t startle him, don’t stare._

“We, er, we’re trying to settle an argument,” Sam explained, keeping his voice matter-of-fact. “A friend of ours is on a hunt and he needs to know if what he’s hunting is a ghoul or a rougarou.”

“It’s a rougarou,” Dean said, shooting Castiel what he hoped was a cheerful grin, though it felt weak and forced. 

“Maybe it’s something else entirely,” Sam reasoned, turning back to his laptop. “There’s plenty of things out there that eat dead humans.”

“Yeah, but Carlos said he ruled them out.”

“Maybe it’s something new.”

“That’s all we need, a new monster out there. Like there aren’t enough already.” Dean rubbed his face, trying to pretend that this was just a normal conversation and they weren’t both treading on eggshells, waiting to see what Castiel would do. Sam replied, and for a little while they batted ideas back and forth, as though everything was fine and they weren’t bothered about Castiel’s presence at all. 

It worked. Castiel slowly relaxed. He took a step into the room, then another. He walked forwards in small bursts, gazing around him at the bunker as though he’d never seen it before, and Dean felt himself start to sweat – was he re-familiarizing himself with it, or did he genuinely have no idea where he was? He stopped by the chair where he’d woken Dean from sleep so alarmingly a few nights ago and looked down at it, tilting his head, and Dean almost forgot how to breathe. But then he moved on, keeping close to the walls as he moved, passing the table and him and Sam, heading towards the staircase. 

“Does he want to leave?” Sam mouthed at him behind Castiel’s back. 

Dean shrugged, frowning, but then Castiel came to a stop. He turned to face them again, his eyes flicking over the brothers to check they hadn’t moved, and then looked up at the glass-tiled ceiling. 

They watched, silent now, as Castiel gazed at the sky. 

“Hey... whatcha doin’?” Dean asked, mock-lightly.

“There’s sunshine,” Castiel replied, after a pause. 

“Yeah, that spot’s a real sun trap,” Dean said. 

Castiel closed his eyes. “It’s warm,” he murmured, so quietly that they almost couldn’t hear him. 

Dean sat forward in his chair. “Is that you, Cas? Are you back with us? Do you remember?”

Castiel opened his eyes again and looked at him. “Remember what?”

“Who you are.” Sam said it gently.

A look of puzzlement spread across Castiel’s face. “I think... I think my name is Cas,” he replied. “You... you just called me that. That’s me, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Dean rose to his feet, keeping his movements smooth and unthreatening. “It’s short for Castiel.”

“Castiel,” said Castiel, feeling the word out with his tongue. “Yes. That sounds right.”

“Do you know us, Cas?” Sam asked, and he stood too.

Castiel frowned. Dean felt his heart skip a beat: for a moment he looked just like the old Castiel, and then his forehead smoothed out again. 

“You are Sam,” said the angel. “And you are Dean. I... I don’t know more than that.”

“It’s a start,” Dean told him, smiling. “Do you know where you are?”

Castiel shook his head, then paused, seeming puzzled again. “No. Except... I knew I would see daylight in this room. I wanted to see daylight. It’s been so long.”

“It’ll come back to you,” Sam said, encouragingly. “All you need to know for now is that you’re safe, okay? Nothing’s going to happen to you here.”

“Safe,” Castiel repeated, and he pulled the blankets tighter around his shoulders. He looked down at his wrists, staring at the red pinpricks on his skin, and tilted his head. “No more hunger.”

Dean nodded. “They’ve gone.”

“You’re free,” Sam said.

Castiel looked up at the sunshine. “It’s a ghoul,” he said. “Rougarou don’t eat corpses.”

There was a pause, then Sam slapped Dean’s arm. “Told ya.”

Dean sighed. “He doesn’t remember us, but he remembers monster lore. Yeah, Cas is back, alright.”

 

* * *

For the next few days, Castiel was like their shadow. He followed them around the bunker, drifting after them whenever they left a room, staying close but not too close, as though he wanted to be in their presence without being part of their lives. It was a little unsettling, Dean thought, but also nice. Castiel was up and moving around of his own volition, making his own choices again, and while he sometimes got that old vacant look on his face, he would blink out of it if one of the brothers addressed him. 

He was getting better, but most of the time what was going through his head was a mystery. Occasionally Dean would feel Castiel’s eyes on him and his skin would prickle, wondering if he was thinking about what they’d done together, but then Castiel would look away, his face impossible to read. As for anything else – he didn’t seem to want to talk about his past, only focusing on whatever the Winchesters were doing that particular moment, whether it was research or unpacking groceries or tidying. He never offered to help, but he was there nevertheless. A presence.

It was as though he was soaking himself in their everyday lives. Dean could only assume that Castiel was hungry for something familiar, something he understood. 

Right now Castiel was standing in a corner of the kitchen, watching Sam prepare a salad. Dean was reluctantly washing some dishes, wishing for the hundredth time that the Men of Letters had thought to install a dishwasher, although maybe they hadn’t even existed back then. Whatever; it was a nuisance having to do it himself, and he resented it. 

“We need to start hunting again,” Sam was saying, unwrapping some limp-looking lettuce. “I’m starting to go stir crazy locked up in here all the time.”

“Well, unless Cas can come with, I don’t think we should leave him yet.” Dean scrubbed at some concrete-oatmeal and frowned. Why did he never remember to soak the bowls first? 

“We could hunt in shifts, I guess,” Sam suggested. “I do the first one, you take the next one.”

“I dunno. It’s better to hunt as a pair.” He shot a look across the room at Castiel. “What do you say, Cas? You feeling up to leaving the bunker for a road trip or two?”

Castiel stared back at him passively, then dragged his eyes back to watch Sam. 

“Yeah, he’s not goin’ anywhere,” Dean observed, shrugging. “Are you sure there’s nobody else–”

But his words were lost, drowned out by a gigantic _crash_. He whirled, startled, in time to see Castiel propel himself into a corner, falling to his knees and rolling into a protective ball. The crash had come from a pile of saucepans Dean had just finished washing which were now scattered across the floor, gently wobbling. 

“Please don’t, please don’t!” Castiel wailed, protecting his head with his hands. “I’ve been good! I’ve been good!”

Sam stood frozen, staring down at him. In his hand was the knife he’d just picked up to chop the lettuce. 

Dean gulped. This was that time with the chisels all over again, only now Castiel was supposed to be _better_. Yet he was still afraid of being tortured: clearly he remembered some things only too well.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” Sam said, putting down the knife with exaggerated slowness. “It’s okay, Cas, it’s okay, it wasn’t for you.”

“I’ve been good, I’ve been good,” Castiel cried. “Please don’t hurt me, don’t punish me, I’ve been good!”

Sam just stood, stunned. Dean wiped his wet hands on his jeans and went over to the corner, kneeling before Castiel slowly. “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he said, reassuringly. “It’s cool, it’s cool, Cas. You’re not going to be punished. Come on, look at me. Look at me.”

Castiel was shuddering, seemingly beside himself, but eventually he looked up at Dean. His eyes were filled with tears. Dean swallowed, feeling a rush of sympathy. 

“You’re safe,” he told him. “You know that. You _know_ that. Come on, what are our names?”

“D-Dean,” Castiel stammered. “And... and Sam.”

“And what are we?”

Castiel’s eyes glazed a little, so Dean gently nudged his arm. “Friends,” he said. “We’re your friends. We’ve known you for years, Cas. Can you remember? Can you remember how long we’ve known you?”

Castiel blinked rapidly. “Nineteen seventy-eight,” he said, unexpectedly. “I’ve known you since nineteen seventy-eight.”

It wasn’t quite what Dean had been going for, but in a way it was correct: Castiel had, indeed, taken them to that year when he’d time-traveled them to meet their parents. “Okay,” he said, smiling a little, “that’s good. That’s good, Cas. See? You’re remembering things. And it’s all fine, Sam was just chopping some salad. He wasn’t going to hurt you.”

Castiel peered up at Sam, who Dean assumed was putting on his best “innocent” face behind him. 

“It was a knife,” Castiel whispered.

“I know. But it wasn’t meant for you.”

Castiel swallowed hard. “Are you sure?”

Dean felt a wave of sadness. “I’m positive. Do you want to go back to your room? Maybe you need a bit of peace and quiet to calm down. Everything’s good, though. We’re not angry. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Okay,” Castiel said quietly, and Dean helped him to his feet. Sam shot him a rueful look as he led him out of the kitchen, but it wasn’t his fault, not really. Castiel was still ill, even though he’d seemed so much better. 

Five years of torture weren’t undone that quickly.

Castiel hesitated as Dean threw back the covers for him to climb into bed. Dean waited, but he didn’t move. 

“You okay?”

Castiel backed up until he was in the corner where he’d hid himself the first time Sam had scared him. “Can I... can I stay here?”

Dean nodded, trying to be reassuring. “If you want. Here, have some pillows.” He handed them over and Castiel slid down the wall until he was sitting with his knees under his chin. His face was pale and he looked small and tired.

“I wish there was something I could do, man,” Dean said. “I wish I could make this all go away for you.”

But Castiel didn’t answer, and after a little while Dean patted him on the hand and left.

 

* * *

 

Another day passed, and Castiel didn’t come out of his room. The good news was that he wasn’t behaving the same way he had the last time he’d been jammed into that corner; his eyes were clear and he seemed lucid. Sam even gave him some books and Castiel flicked through them, interested. He didn’t respond with much enthusiasm when Dean showed him how to use the TV, though, which Dean thought was a shame. “A _Queer Eye_ marathon might’ve perked him up,” he told Sam, who humored him with a laugh. 

But something still wasn’t right. Castiel was jittery, flinching at sudden noises and movements, and it was clear that the sight of the knife had messed with him somehow.

“It’s post-traumatic stress disorder,” Sam observed as they sat in the kitchen later that night. “It’s like he’s just left the battlefield. He’s back with us, but at least some part of his head is back there.”

Dean sighed, rubbing his eyes. “PTSD. I guess that makes sense. Man, if only you hadn’t gone all serial-killer lettuce-slasher and scared him off his tits.”

His brother choked on his drink. “...‘Scared him off his tits?’ What does that even _mean_?”

“He remembered sending us back in time, though.” 

Sam’s expression turned thoughtful. “He did. That’s a really good sign.”

“You know, it could take years for his memories to come back, at this rate.”

“Maybe it’ll be like a dam bursting. He’ll remember a few things and then the whole lot will come flooding back.”

Dean considered it. “Well, we can hope.”

He didn’t want some things flooding back, though. He knew that for a fact.

 

* * * 

 

The next day Carlos called them: he needed help with the ghoul hunt. He’d wiped out the first one, but after he’d left town it became obvious that the rest of its clan wanted revenge – they followed him, somehow, and he was cornered in a cabin outside Fort Collins. He could hold out for a few days, but someone needed to back him up.

“I’ll go,” said Sam, and Dean watched with a surge of somewhat irrational jealousy as his brother drove off, leaving him alone with Castiel and nothing else to do. 

Sam wasn’t the only one going stir-crazy in the bunker.

But Castiel couldn’t be left alone; he was still confused. And so Dean settled in for babysitting duties. 

At first he tried to force Castiel to watch _Queer Eye_ , but the angel pummeled him with so many questions that he gave up (“Why are these men doing this?” “What is their objection to that man’s outfit?” “I do not understand why green walls are an improvement...”). He toyed with the idea of getting Castiel to watch something fictional, but the poor guy was confused enough without expecting him to understand something made up. And so, eventually, he just played some of his favorite music and sat with his laptop as Castiel either gazed off into the distance or flicked through the books Sam had given him, which seemed to be angel-centric.

“This is a riot,” Dean muttered to himself as the day went on, and his companion glanced up at him quizzically, looking almost like the old Castiel, but then he’d shivered and looked down again and Dean was left to wonder if that Castiel was ever coming back.

 

* * *

 

He woke at three in the morning, unable to say what it was that had roused him, but it was as though somebody had thrown a switch in his head and that was it: no more sleep. After a while spent tossing and turning he eventually gave up and threw on his robe. He fancied some coffee; maybe there was some decaff in the kitchen. Even as he thought it, he felt his hair getting grayer and liver spots forming on his skin. 

“When did I turn into an old fart?” he thought ruefully a short while later, pouring decaff into his mug. 

He sat in silence for a while, listening to the familiar noises of the bunker, experiencing the unfamiliar sensation of having nothing to do and nowhere to go. He worried about Sam for a while; ghouls were nasty fuckers, but of course Sam was hardly an amateur, as was Carlos. They’d be fine. 

It was when he’d finished the drink and was walking back to bed that he heard it: a sob. Just a small one, coming from Castiel’s bedroom. 

Was something wrong?

“Hey,” he said softly, pushing open the door. The lights were on and Castiel was sitting in his familiar corner, but he didn’t look up at Dean as he walked in. He was bent over in what looked like pain, hands twisted in his hair, and he seemed to be crying.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” Dean kneeled before him anxiously and reached for his shoulder, but Castiel flinched, lowering his head. He was shaking and his fingers were digging into his scalp, possibly even hard enough to leave marks. 

“What is it?” Dean asked, genuinely alarmed now.

Castiel choked down a sob. “I can’t remember.”

“Remember what?” Even as he said it, Dean knew how dumb it sounded. If he couldn’t remember it, how would he know what he couldn’t remember? Duh.

“ _Before,_ ” Castiel replied, after a moment. “It’s lost... there are just fragments. It hurts when I try.”

Ah. “Then don’t try, okay?” Dean said, as soothingly as he could. “It’ll come back to you, Cas. You don’t have to force it.”

“I can’t remember _me_ , Dean.” Castiel finally looked up at him, revealing a flushed, tear-streaked face. “I remember what the demons did, that they imprisoned me... I remember the... the bed, I remember the bed, and the chains. I think I remember all of that, but I’m not sure... not really. But I don’t remember who I was before. I get – flashes – little moments where I know I was someone... someone important. I had power, didn’t I?”

Dean nodded, saying nothing.

Castiel curled his fingers in his hair, his face twisting. “My past... it’s all dark... You and Sam... I know you’re important to me. I can feel that we’re close, Dean... I think I saw you in Hell, and I think you were chosen, somehow... but it’s all a muddle, I can’t get it straight in my head.” His face suddenly crumpled. “I’m crazy. I know I’m crazy. My mind is in fragments. There’s... there’s the bed... and then there’s everything else...”

Dean sighed. “You’ve been though a lot, Cas. You’ve been through shit I can’t even imagine. You’re going to be confused for a while, okay? That’s normal. In fact, being confused is probably the most normal thing that’s happened to you in the last five years.”

Castiel tugged on his hair. “It hurts when I _think_.”

“Then relax. Come on, man, calm down. Take it easy.” Moving slowly so as not to alarm him, Dean took one wrist and lifted his hand away from his head, then did the same for the other one. “There. Stop being so hard on yourself. Give yourself a break, Cas, you’ve been through a lot. Life isn’t going to be perfect right away.”

Castiel’s eyes met his, and then he looked down at Dean’s hands on his wrists. “You... you fucked me,” he said, haltingly.

Dean hissed in a breath, shocked.

“I remember you did that. You were... gentle.”

“I wasn’t gentle,” Dean said, bitterly. “I didn’t have any choice, those things on your wrists needed feeding, and it was the only way to help you. But I should’ve done it without hurting you. I’m so sorry.”

“The demons wanted to hurt me,” Castiel said. “You didn’t. I could feel that you didn’t.”

“Yeah, well, that don’t make it right, Cas.”

Castiel peered up at him despairingly. “I look at you and I feel I know you. You’re already in my head, but I can’t... I can’t find you.”

Dean swallowed down his unease and squeezed his hand, trying to offer comfort. “You’ll find me. You’ll find all of it, Cas. Just give it time, okay?” 

Castiel stared at his hand for a few moments, then pulled it away. His forehead dropped to his knees and he hugged his legs tightly, closed off, a ball of misery and pain. Helpless, Dean sat silently for a while, struggling to find a way to change the subject. 

And then he had an idea.

“Hey, how about you and me go on a little adventure tomorrow?”

 

* * *

 

It was chilly outside, but the sun was bright and the sky was blue: a perfect Spring day. Dean felt his spirits lift as he drove towards the reservoir, and whenever he stole a glance at Castiel, the angel was watching the fields sweep past them with a serene expression. This had to be doing him some good: seeing the great outdoors again, the greenery and the sunshine – if this didn’t cheer him up, nothing would.

Of course, it would take more than a few birds chirping to make him _better_ , but a temporary boost was definitely overdue.

They pulled up by a small café and Dean went to grab some coffee, then led Castiel down to a bench overlooking the water. It was odd seeing him fully dressed after so long: his usual coat and suit were ancient history by now, but even in jeans and a hoodie he looked more like his old self. Dean couldn’t stop himself from smiling as he sat down beside him, pulling the lid off his coffee to let it cool. 

“Sure you don’t want some?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. Castiel shook his head and stared out at the water thoughtfully, and they sat in companionable silence for a while, watching someone’s spaniel chasing ducks with the kind of joy only dogs and small children seemed able to feel.

And then, just as Dean was starting to feel a measure of contentment, Castiel spoke.

“Did we fuck before the demons took me?” 

His voice was so normal, so natural, that the words sounded even more shocking. “No,” Dean sputtered, nearly spilling his coffee. “No, Cas, we didn’t.”

“Oh.” Castiel frowned. “It’s just that I remember... I _think_ I remember looking at you... wanting you.”

Dean gulped. “Ah... well, no. We never did anything back then. And we won’t do anything again, either. That’s all over.”

Castiel seemed to mull on that one for a while, his forehead creased, and Dean welcomed the break as he concentrated on getting his heartbeat to slow down. 

“Does this mean it’s Sam’s turn now?”

Dean blinked at him, staggered. “No, no – hell, no, Cas, don’t you ever think that,” he said, the words coming out in a rush. “ _No._ Neither of us want to have sex with you! It was just a two-time thing, right? To feed those parasites on you, that’s all! And... and maybe once more if we include that time you pounced on me while I was asleep. That was a dick move, by the way, and I mean that literally. But that’s all it was, okay?”

“But–” Castiel stopped, apparently astounded. “But I thought we had... I thought we had fucked lots of times. Weren’t we... isn’t this what we _do_?”

Dean gazed at him, confused, but then he finally realized what was going on. He sighed; this wasn’t a conversation he’d ever wanted to have, but he knew he couldn’t avoid it now. He closed his eyes, shutting out the beauty of the day and remembering what he’d seen in the videos. 

“Castiel... you...” He swallowed. “When the demons were with you, you sometimes pretended they were me.”

“I did?”

He opened his eyes again, but he couldn’t look at Castiel; he stared at the dog instead. The damn thing was so happy just to have a _stick_. “I think you did it because they were so... cruel,” he explained. “You pretended you were with me to make it easier on yourself. I don’t really understand it, but you weren’t exactly sane, so I guess it made sense in your head.”

“You’re not cruel,” Castiel said after a pause, and it sounded like a question. 

Dean smiled grimly. “Oh, I can be.”

Castiel regarded him seriously. “Sometimes the demons would call me _Dean Winchester’s bitch_ ,” he said, and Dean finally looked at him, shocked. “Is that true?”

“Is what...? I don’t get what you mean.”

“Before they imprisoned me, was I yours?”

Dean frowned. “You weren’t _anybody’s_ , Cas. I mean, I guess you belonged to God for a while, but he hopped towns.”

“Then...” Castiel scowled, shifting uncomfortably on the bench. “I don’t understand. Who owns me now?”

“Er, nobody.” Dean placed a hand on his arm. “You’re free, Cas. You have free will.”

“But _you_ tell me what to do. So you must own me.”

“It’s not like that, Cas – Christ, is that what you’ve been thinking for the last week? That I’m your... your _master,_ or something?”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed. “If it’s not you, who is it?”

“Nobody!” Dean was aghast. Did Castiel really think he was still a _slave_? “Cas, you can do what you want now! You’re not with the demons, you’ve got your life back. If you want to go see a movie, you can go see a movie. If you want to get up at 4am and make pancakes, you can get up at 4am and make pancakes. It’s your life, man.”

“But you told me to come here with you today. You are in charge.”

“It was just a suggestion – I thought you might enjoy it, is all! You could have said no! You don’t have to do anything we tell you to do, Cas. The only reason we’ve been telling you to do things over the last few days is that we’re looking after you, trying to make things better for you. You’ve been ill and we want to help you get over it. But you don’t have to listen to us if you don’t want to.”

Castiel seemed utterly confused. “This makes no sense,” he said, shaking his head. “What is my _purpose_?”

Dean stopped, stumped. “Your purpose?”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“You’re supposed to just... do what all of us do, Cas. Be yourself. Relax. Chill out. Read a good book, drink some beers, watch a few sunsets.” The dog dropped its stick and came bounding over to them, its tail wagging. Dean gestured towards it. “Or pet a friendly dog. Go on, pat it on the head.”

Hesitantly, Castiel raised a hand and patted the spaniel between the ears, as awkward and nervous as it was possible to get. The dog stood still for a few moments, then licked his wrist and bounced away. Dean raised a hand in greeting to the woman walking behind it.

“Yeah, he’s a bit scared of dogs,” he explained, as Castiel stared down at his hand blankly. She smiled, nodded and walked on. 

Alone, they stared out at the water again.

“I don’t see how I can ‘be myself’ if I don’t know what _myself_ is,” Castiel said. 

“I keep telling you to be patient, man. You’ll come back.”

Another silence fell, and then Castiel said, “This is the longest I haven’t been fucked in... in... more time than I can remember.”

“That’s a good thing,” Dean replied, and even as he did so, he was aware of how horrible it was that he was getting used to hearing Castiel say _fuck_. “You hear me? It’s a good thing.”

“I don’t feel it is,” Castiel said. “It was my purpose.” 

He rose to his feet and walked back to the car, leaving Dean on the bench with a cup of cooling coffee in his hand.

 

* * *

 

Sam was waiting for them when they got back to the bunker, which was a surprise. 

He was also pretty banged up, which was another, nastier surprise. He had three large scratches down his left cheek, a huge bruise on his chin and was holding himself so stiffly that Dean instinctively winced, deducing that his ribs were injured. “You okay?” he asked, forgetting Castiel completely as he ran down the stairs, reaching his brother’s side as he leaned on the table. 

“You should see the other guy,” Sam quipped, smiling wearily. “I’m fine, it’s nothing. Carlos is okay too. We got them – six ghouls, all gone. Short and sharp, no complications.”

“Good,” Dean said, nodding, then held out a hand to take Sam’s chin, wanting to angle the cuts to the light and see if they needed stitching. Sam pulled away though, playing the tough guy, and Dean frowned at him. “Hey, let me look.”

“I’m fine, seriously. They look worse than they are.”

“These could scar,” Dean said. 

“Yeah, well, I can add them to the list.”

“I think I can help,” said Castiel from behind Dean’s shoulder.

Dean turned to him, surprised. Was he actually offering to heal someone? Could he remember being able to do that?

Sam, too, looked uncertain as he raised his eyebrows. “You sure, Cas? Are you strong enough?”

Castiel tilted his head, giving Sam an appraising look. “I won’t know until I try. Here...”

He leaned forwards, touching Sam on the forehead in that oh-so-familiar gesture from all those years ago. Dean blinked, and then suddenly Sam’s face was clean of injury.

“I have missed that _so much,_ ” his brother grinned. “Thanks, Cas.”

Castiel nodded, and for a moment he almost seemed to smile. “I remember doing that in the past,” he said. “It feels good to–”

He stopped, clutching his head. The brothers stared at him in confusion as his face twisted in what looked like pain. “Cas?” Dean asked, taking a step forward, but then Castiel straightened again, his face relaxing a little. 

“Angel radio,” he said, breathing heavily. “It just... I think you’d describe it as ‘coming back online’.”

“That’s good, right?” Sam asked, hopefully. 

Castiel squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. “Noisy,” he said, sounding pissed and very much like his old self, and without another word he headed back to his bedroom.

Dean stared after him, concerned, and Sam read his look and shrugged. “So is he better? You don’t seem too impressed.”

“He’s a mess,” Dean grunted.

“Where were you, anyway?”

“Took him for a drive. Thought he’d like a change of scenery. Instead he tells me he has no idea what his purpose is now, because his whole world consisted of being a fuck-toy for those demons and they’ve destroyed any scrap of his self-identity.”

He pulled out a chair and sat down on it, hard. 

Sam stared at him in consternation. “Oh,” he said, and apparently he couldn’t think of anything else to say, so they sat in silence for a little while.

“Maybe the angels can talk some sense into him,” Dean mused. “There has to be an upside to him being able to hear them again.”

Sam shook his head. “Since when have angels been understanding wherever Cas is concerned? They’ll probably call him a traitor for hanging out with demons for all those years, even though it wasn’t his choice.”

 

* * *

 

Later that day, they discovered that was _exactly_ what the angels had told Castiel on those strange, mystical frequencies in his head, and Castiel spent that evening tucked into his corner, staring at nothing, ignoring the Winchesters and stroking his wrists and neck as though he missed what used to sit there.

 

* * *

 

Time passed. Every day, Castiel was a little more alert, a little more able to join in with their conversations, even if he didn’t always understand everything the brothers were referring to. He asked questions, heard the answers and stored them somewhere in his broken head until a memory would surface that made sense of them. It was slow going, but Dean looked at him from time to time and noticed a brightness in his eyes or a tiny, unwitting smile on his lips, and he felt hope. 

He even felt comfortable enough to leave Castiel with his brother while he went off to deal with a ghost in Texas, and a few days after that, both he and Sam left him alone while they helped out with another hunt. When they returned, Castiel seemed genuinely pleased to see them. To Dean’s amusement, in their absence he had started to watch _The Good Place_ – although he had many questions about it. It was encouraging to discover how much he had finally remembered about the real Heaven and Hell, even if it was in comparison to the ones dreamed up by a television show.

A month went by. Six weeks. 

Dean contemplated destroying the hard drive. He didn’t want to watch any more of the recordings, although it still niggled at him that he hadn’t finished identifying all the creatures – but that seemed less important now that Castiel was back with them. He thought back to what Sam had once said about asking Castiel’s permission to watch the videos, and he realized that his brother had been right: Dean had overstepped a million boundaries to watch those damn things. He was ashamed of himself and worried about how Castiel would react if – or when – he found out. Still, if Dean hadn’t watched at least one of those damn things, it would have been much more difficult to keep the Oxidiens fed. So at least there was that, cold comfort as it was.

Dean found himself thinking back to those two disorienting sexual encounters with Castiel and it seemed as though he was watching them through someone else’s eyes. That hadn’t been Castiel, and it hadn’t been him; that had been two strangers interacting out of necessity. The same went for the time he’d woken up with Castiel’s lips around his dick. It hadn’t happened to him. It had been a dream, nothing more. 

Still, sometimes – in the shower, perhaps, or in bed – he found himself remembering a little too much, and he’d feel a thrill of desire course through him. 

He wanted Castiel. He couldn’t deny it. Something long-buried had woken inside him. But it was impossible, and so he always thought about something else instead.

Another few weeks passed. Finally, after what seemed like decades, Dean relaxed; the past was the past, and the future was looking rosier every day. 

And then it all went to hell again.

 

* * *

 

Castiel seemed to be in a pensive mood. The brothers were eating breakfast, chatting animatedly about their latest hunt, but the angel seemed happy to stare off into the distance without taking part. Dean had often theorized that after five years of nothing but abuse, just _not_ being the focus of attention was a relief. It was a strange concept.

But his friend was also thinking hard, as Dean was unfortunate enough to discover during a break in the conversation. 

“Dean, I have been wondering something.”

Dean raised his eyebrows, still chewing on some bacon. “Shoot.”

Castiel’s eyes seemed far away, and he frowned. “You told me a few weeks ago that I would pretend _you_ were with me instead of the demons. I don’t understand how you know that.”

Dean stopped chewing. 

“You weren’t there,” Castiel continued. “How would you know that if you weren’t there? Or were you there after all? I thought you were there _before_ , and then _after_ , but... well, I can’t remember things properly sometimes.”

Sam looked from him to Castiel and back again. “You told him what?”

It was as though everything just slowed down; his brain seemed to convulse. Dean swallowed the food in his mouth without tasting it, putting down his knife and fork. His first instinct was to lie: to tell Castiel that a demon had told him. But he shouldn’t lie, not about this. It was important not to deceive Castiel, not when he’d been through so much already, and Sam would know it was a lie and his expression could give it away. But then it hit him that Sam didn’t know what Dean had watched, either: this would be news to him, too. Hideous, unbearable news, the kind of news that he shouldn’t have discovered in the first place. 

_Why did I watch those fucking videos?_

The silence had stretched on for too long; both Sam and Castiel were staring at him, Sam with curiosity and Castiel with growing alarm. Even after all this time, Castiel responded with fear if something happened that he didn’t understand, or if either of the brothers seemed upset by something he’d said. It made Dean’s heart twist inside him. 

“There are recordings of you,” he finally managed to croak. “I watched some of them. I saw you pretending that a demon was me. You did it more than once.”

Sam’s eyes widened. 

Castiel simply stared at Dean in disbelief. “Recordings?”

“They filmed you,” he said, hating himself for having to tell him. “Do you remember that there was always a camera in the room with you?”

Castiel blinked, his eyes unfocusing. “They watched me to keep me safe,” he said, sounding uncertain. “To keep me... from escaping.”

“They filmed you and they put the videos on the internet for other demons to watch.” Dean said it quickly, as it was easier that way.

“What... what did they film?”

Dean sighed. “Not all of it, you weren’t live-streamed or anything. That we know of, anyway. But there are hundreds of videos. Don’t worry, Sam took the website down, so that’s history, and we have the only hard drive with them on – nobody else can see them now.”

Castiel looked at Sam, then back at him, his eyes dark and worried. “And... you watched them?”

“It was just after we rescued you. I was so angry with those bastards for what they’d done to you... I watched bits of them, just here and there, so I could identify the demons and hunt them down. I only got part-way, though, because I realized... I should have asked for your permission first. I had no right to watch them, Cas. Sam didn’t see any of them, it was just me, and I’m sorry.”

He was sweating. Across the table, Sam sat silently, watching them both, and Dean felt as though he’d let both of them down. 

Castiel said nothing. His eyes bored into Dean, who felt like squirming under their intensity. 

“Do you want them?” he asked, when he couldn’t take any more. “You can have the hard drive. You can destroy it. I’ve almost destroyed it myself about fifty times over.”

“You watched me,” Castiel breathed, and there was disgust in his voice. “I thought we were... I thought you weren’t like _them_ , but...” Suddenly he leaned forward, so intently that Dean flinched away. “You enjoyed it. I felt you enjoy it. I remember that now, I remember that night – I was confused, but you were watching something, and it was... it was _me_ , and you were... aroused... and I thought you wanted me and so I did what you wanted, but... you were watching me on that _bed_...”

Dean had a memory-flash of that night when he’d watched the recording of the demon fucking Castiel, when Castiel moaning _I’m a filthy angel whore_ had had such an unexpected effect on him, and he remembered that he’d watched it only a few feet away from him. He looked down at the table, burning with shame, and his reaction must have been enough for Sam to realize that Castiel was telling the truth. 

It felt as though his entire world was imploding.

“I can’t... I can’t... be here,” Castiel hissed, and he rose to his feet. 

Dean stood too, anguished. “Please, Cas, I didn’t mean it to be like this. It wasn’t planned, it just–”

He reached out, intending to place a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, but suddenly something hit him in the stomach with so much force that it was the center of his universe and he couldn’t think of anything else, not even how much it hurt when he landed on the far side of the kitchen. There was nothing but pain and endless, terrified attempts to gasp oxygen into his lungs, and then suddenly he could breathe again and he realized what had happened: _Castiel had punched him across the room._

He looked up, his eyes streaming. Sam was already at his side, his face pale and determined, checking him for injuries, but Dean didn’t even care: 

Castiel was gone.

 

* * *

 

They couldn’t find him. He hadn’t taken a phone, he had no car, he had only been wearing jeans, his t-shirt and his boots, and he had no money. But he had completely disappeared: the bunker was empty, Sam hacked some nearby traffic cams and found that nobody seemed to have picked up any hitch-hikers, and that was it. Castiel had walked out and left them, and it was all Dean’s fault.

And so he got drunk. 

Sam was angry with him too, but he seemed to understand that right now wasn’t the time to argue and he simply continued to search for Castiel using all the resources at his disposal while Dean downed glass after glass of whisky. Finally Dean was so drunk that Sam had to half-carry him to bed, and the next morning – after a restless night that ended in a hangover so bad that Dean threw up six times, almost passing out from the pain thrumming from the bruises on his chest – Sam made him black coffee and said nothing.

Finally, when things had calmed down and Dean had been sober for more than half the day, Sam turned to him with an expression that said it all, and Dean felt tears filling his eyes. 

“I know, I know,” he gulped. 

“You _got off_ on watching Cas?”

Dean threw his head back, gazing at the ceiling, blinking away the tears. The words all came out in a rush, like a confession. “It was one of the more recent videos. He was... willing. They’d brainwashed him into enjoying it. It felt like watching porn, not something... non-consensual. I turned it off, I only watched a bit, it was... disturbing. But Cas must’ve felt what I was feeling and thought I wanted him. I fell asleep and when I woke up he was...” He stopped, unable to say it. “I thought I was dreaming. I didn’t even know it was real.”

“And then you had to have sex with him, twice, to feed the Oxidiens,” Sam observed, his voice flat. “That must have been nice for you.”

“Sam, please don’t.”

His brother sighed, shaking his head. “Dean, I know you have a dark side. You’ve always had it, and then you went to Hell and it – I dunno, it got worse. I don’t really understand some of the things you do. But hey, I’m not exactly squeaky clean, either. We’re both fucked up. It’s our lives, the way we live, the things we’ve seen.” He lowered his voice, waiting until Dean had met his gaze. “But watching those videos? That was something else. I’m not sure Cas is ever going to forgive you. Even if we do find him.”

Dean nodded mutely. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

“He was doing so well,” Sam said, and his voice was so sad that Dean couldn’t bear it: he left the room, left the bunker, climbed into his car and drove for hours, looking, searching, but the whole time he knew he might never see Castiel again, and eventually he just drove and didn’t look at anything except the road ahead.

 

~ ~ ~


	3. Chapter 3

**_Two Months Later_ **

 

The first time they’d found him, it had been through a demon. This time it was thanks to an angel.

They never even knew her name. She was being hunted by her brethren thanks to some internal heavenly dispute that Dean didn’t give a crap about – after all, those feathery assholes were always fighting each other about something. But, thanks to a spectacular feat of being in the wrong place at the right time, the Winchesters had managed to distract the angels chasing her without even meaning to, allowing her to escape. 

And she was grateful. 

“If there is anything I can do for you, just ask,” she said, sliding her angel blade up her sleeve as she realized she wasn’t going to use it.

Dean didn’t even hesitate. “Tell us where we can find Castiel.”

The angel’s face fell. “I am not sure he would be happy for me to divulge that information.”

“He’s our friend,” Dean argued. 

“If he were truly your friend, he would keep in touch with you.”

“Do you know where he is or not?” Sam asked, sounding irritated. “Come on, you said ‘anything’ you could do. And without us you’d have been dragged back to Heaven by now.” 

The angel looked him up and down, then cast her eyes over Dean, thoughtfully. “A fair point. These days, Castiel’s path is a dark one. Perhaps you can help him. Some of us have tried, but he is unwilling to accept our help.”

Dean frowned, puzzled. “He told us you guys had washed your hands of him.”

“He is not welcome in Heaven,” said the angel, nodding slowly. “But there are those of us who have sympathy. Not all of us lack feelings.” She looked away, suddenly seeming sad. “He was important to many of us, once, but now he has... become something else. It is painful to watch.” 

“Is he okay?” Dean took a step forward, but the angel simply held out a piece of paper. He took it, reading the address of a bar in Kanab, Utah.

“See if you can bring him back to the light,” said the angel. “There is nothing more we can do for him.”

And just like that, she was gone.

 

* * *

 

Somehow, Dean managed to persuade his brother to let him confront Castiel alone. Sam countered that Castiel’s argument hadn’t been with _him_ : if anyone could talk him round, it should be the one who hadn’t betrayed him. 

But Dean was too close to this. He was hoping the element of surprise would be enough to shock Castiel into listening to him: he’d rehearsed his apology a thousand times. A million times. It was heartfelt and eloquent, a true tearjerker. 

He had a horrible feeling it wouldn’t work, though. 

Castiel had every right to be pissed at him, and not only that, the last time Dean had seen him he also hadn’t had a full head of memories of their long history together to soften his stance. Technically he’d only known Dean a few months, and for a lot of that time he’d been so ill he’d barely even known his own name, let alone Dean’s. Had he remembered more since? Or was he still that confused, half-version of Castiel?

Either way, Dean found that his quarry was still full of surprises. The place the angel had directed him to was a gay bar.

“Oh boy,” he muttered, as the stared around the interior apprehensively. There were a lot of men in there, and it was late enough in the evening for many of them to be very, very drunk. Dean scanned the room, wincing at the volume of the music. It was probably a sign that he was getting old, but how the hell could anybody have a conversation in a place like this? He peered around a corner and his eyes were met with the sight of two guys with their tongues down each other’s throats. Okay then. Perhaps this wasn’t a place for _talk_. 

But what the hell was Castiel doing here?

Perhaps he wasn’t actually here right now, though. After a little while spent searching, Dean eventually went up to the bar and called the barman over. “Hey, you seen this guy?”

The man stared down at the photo in his hand; a picture of Dean and Castiel from a long time ago, looking younger; well, on Dean’s part, at least. The barman blinked, shrugged and turned away. Sighing, Dean headed over to a group of guys who looked as though they’d been slamming back vodka shots for a while and asked them. Nothing. He tried again and again, earning some suspicious looks, before he finally hit paydirt. 

“Yeah, he’s a regular,” said a twentysomething blond wearing a black t-shirt that proclaimed _The Future Is Gay_. “Never seen him in a suit though. Is that from his day job?”

“You could say that,” Dean said, trying to hide his impatience. “Any idea where he is? It’s kind of important. Nothing bad, I promise. I just lost his number. Him and me, we, uh, got a history.” 

He gave the guy his most charming smile. It worked: he saw him get a little flustered, not that it was surprising. Modesty aside, Dean figured he was the most attractive man in this place by far.

“Well, I guess I know where he is right now,” the guy said, and tilted his head flirtatiously. “But are you sure you want to find him? Like, really? You can do better than him. He’s got a bit of a reputation.”

“...Reputation?”

“You know: he’s in here a _lot._ He’s more regular than my mother, and she eats her All-Bran. Not that I’m down on that kind of thing – each to their own, and he’s hardly the first in this place – but he’s also kind of legendary.”

“Legendary for what?” Dean asked, already knowing he wasn’t going to like the answer.

The guy laughed. “Let’s just say if you’re a top, you’re gonna love him. But I guess you kinda know that already.” 

Dean could only look blank, and the man raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Okay, well. Look, I may have overstepped here. No harm meant. I’m sure he’s a good guy really.” He pointed at one corner of the bar. “He’s usually in the bathroom. Good luck.”

Dean scowled, turning to find the toilets. What the hell was Castiel doing coming to this place on a regular basis? And why was he _usually_ in the bathroom? A small, worried flutter formed in his stomach as he realized what that could mean, and he tried to ignore it as he walked into the bathroom.

On first glance, the room was empty. There were four stalls. One door was shut. As Dean stared at it, he heard... _sounds_.

There was no mistaking what those sounds were.

_What the fuck was going on?_

“Cas?” he said aloud. His voice bounced back at him from the tiles, harsh and jagged.

There was a long, tense silence. 

Then the door swung open and there, dressed all in black, was Castiel. He was standing with a much younger man who was buttoning up his jeans hurriedly, his face red. Castiel’s lips were wet and he was panting slightly. It didn’t take much imagination to figure out what they’d just been up to.

“Oh god,” Dean breathed, truly shocked. “What the fuck are you _doing?_ ”

“Who the hell are you?” the young man asked, scowling at Dean so viciously that it almost felt like a slap. “This is a free country, find your own stall.”

“How old are you, jailbait?” Dean asked, suddenly furious.

“Legal, thank you!” the kid bit back. 

“What are you, eighteen? I got news for you, sunshine: this guy’s _five billion years old_. Find someone your own age.” 

He yanked the guy’s arm and pulled him out of the stall. 

“Hey!”

“Get lost before I call your mom to come and get you.”

“Who made you the bathroom police?”

“ _Get out!_ ”

Castiel watched calmly as his companion left with a defiant door-slam, then moved his gaze to Dean and narrowed his eyes. “Why are you here?” 

“Is this what you do now, Cas? You suck cock in public bathrooms?”

“Yes,” Castiel said flatly. 

Dean stopped, the wind taken out of his sails. “Seriously? This is your life?”

“Yes. And I would appreciate it if you would let me get on with it.”

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it again. He was at a loss. He hadn’t been expecting this. Hostility, yes. But _sexuality?_ No. Out of nowhere he felt sick – a visceral, unexpected reaction to what Castiel had just said, a disgust that was primal and raw. He turned to the basins behind him, holding his stomach, thinking he was genuinely going to puke. For a few moments he stood silently, trying to control himself, and then he turned in time to see the door to the bar closing.

“ _Dammit!_ ” 

He followed Castiel as quickly as he could. It was hard to make him out in the gloom of the bar; his black shirt blended in, but after a few panicky seconds Dean spotted him leaving through a fire door and ran to follow.

It opened into a deserted alleyway. Castiel was walking fast, but he heard the door open and turned to face his pursuer with a sigh, looking magnificently pissed and significantly more in control than the last time Dean had seen him. 

“What?” he snapped, frowning.

“Don’t leave,” Dean said, slightly out of breath. “I came to apologize.” 

“Yes, I’m sure you did. That doesn’t mean I have to accept it.”

“I just... the thing is...” His carefully rehearsed apology completely fled his mind, so he went with the first thing that popped into his head instead. “I miss you, Cas. I really miss you.”

Castiel studied him silently. 

“I messed up, I know I messed up. But I wanted to hunt down those bastards who hurt you, that’s the only reason I started watching those videos, I swear. One of them took me by surprise, that’s what you felt that time – I didn’t mean to feel that way, and I turned it off, honest-to-God, I did. And in a weird, sick way, it was good that I watched them: that’s how I found the right words for the spell for those things that were on you.”

If anything, Castiel’s frown intensified. “Sam told me that a witch gave him that spell.”

“Not all of it, not really. I had to watch the video to get the details. If it hadn’t been for that video the spell wouldn’t have worked the first time I performed it, and by the time it did... it might have been too late. I had to watch it.”

“Well, I’m sure you enjoyed it.”

Dean stepped back, chastened by his tone. “I didn’t... I couldn’t get off on watching you, Cas. You were tortured and... and... everything else. They did terrible things to you. I didn’t _enjoy_ watching that. What kind of monster do you think I am?”

“You still watched them.” Castiel’s jaw was set and he was holding his body stiffly. Dean was almost scared of him.

“I didn’t watch a single video all the way through, I swear,” he said, putting his hand on his heart. “I skipped them. I took screenshots of their faces and I turned them off again.”

Castiel just stood there.

“Can you remember me? Do you remember the time before you were taken? Has it come back to you yet?”

“Some of it,” Castiel said, glancing away. “I know a lot more now.”

“Then you know how close we are. How close we’ve always been. You know how much you mean to me.”

Castiel didn’t answer, and so Dean stepped forward. There was no response, so he did it again, and again, until he was finally standing face-to-face with Castiel for the first time in two months. 

“Let me help you,” he said, urgently. “This... what you’re doing here... this isn’t you, Cas.”

Castiel’s gaze was darting all over the alleyway. Dean leaned forwards and sideways, trying to catch his eyes as they moved, and finally it worked. They locked eyes and stared at each other – and within seconds, Dean felt a _frisson_ , something magnetic and sexual between them, and he gulped in a breath of shock.

“I’m a filthy angel whore,” Castiel said matter-of-factly. 

Dean felt a wave of despair at the now-familiar words. “No, you’re not.”

“I’m a filthy angel whore.”

“You’re _not_.”

Unexpectedly, Castiel reached out a hand and placed it around Dean’s throat. “Would you let me fuck you right now?”

What the hell was he doing? Dean swallowed nervously, feeling his Adam’s apple move under Castiel’s palm. “This isn’t you, Cas,” he pleaded.

“This is me.”

“It’s not. The Castiel I love wouldn’t use sex as a weapon.”

Castiel’s hand tightened, his eyes narrowing. “You don’t know me as well as you think. I’m nothing. I’m nothing at all except a filthy angel whore.”

“Oh god,” Dean murmured, suddenly distraught. “What did they do to you, Cas? Please let me help you, please don’t keep going on like this–”

But what he was going to say next was lost as Castiel tightened his hand yet again, almost choking him, and then suddenly Dean found himself slammed face-first against the wall of the alleyway. 

“I could fuck you,” Castiel growled in his ear.

“What–”

“After all, you like to fuck _me_ , don’t you?”

“Cas, stop this!”

“I thought we were done,” Castiel snapped, and then his voice cracked in what sounded like grief. “I was so worried, Dean. I thought that you’d fucked me to save my life and it had disgusted you. I thought that would be it, the end of our friendship, the end of everything. But it turns out that you wanted me the whole time. You watched demons fuck me and it _turned you on._ ”

Dean was almost crying now, his mind racing in horror and disgust. He had no idea how to calm Castiel down, how to heal this rift between them, how to make things the way they were before.

And then it hit him, and even as he said it out loud he knew it was bad.

“I want you to fuck _me_ ,” he begged, and shifted so that his legs were parted in front of Castiel’s hips. “Come on, Cas, do it. Fuck me and make it hurt. Get your revenge. I deserve it, I fucking deserve it. Be as rough as you can. Come on, do it, do it now. Fuck me right now, against this wall, as hard as you want. I’m yours, Cas, I’m all yours. _I’ll be your filthy human whore._ ”

Castiel froze. The world froze. Dean could barely even breathe. His legs nearly gave way beneath him, his body shuddered, and he could taste metal in his mouth. He whimpered, honest-to-god whimpered in shame and self-hatred. 

And then suddenly everything came to life again.

A hand reached around his waist and ripped off his belt, making him grunt in surprise. A second later his jeans were yanked down with superhuman strength; he felt the material burn against his skin as they slid, denim tearing against his flesh and bruising it, and he bit his lip to choke down the yell of outrage and fear that wanted to accompany it. And then... and then... There was a hand on his buttocks, a finger slid between them, and he felt himself being opened. 

Castiel was doing it. He was actually going to do it.

The hand squeezed his throat and then someone else’s cock was inside him. There was no gentleness to the action at all; it was hard and violent and it hurt, it hurt bad, and Dean cried out in pain before realizing he had to save his breath because there was a hand around his throat and it wasn’t going anywhere. Castiel thrusted forward, ramming Dean’s crotch into the wall, and then he pulled out and did it again. 

_He’d done this to Castiel, hadn’t he? He’d entered him like this, unthinking, uncaring, just fucking him for his own pleasure._ Dean choked, repulsed in a million different ways. It burned. It ached in a way Dean hadn’t felt in a long, long time; not since Hell. He gasped and tried to push back from the wall with his arms, to get away, panicking, but Castiel thrusted again and Dean’s forehead hit the bricks, hard. Dazed, he saw stars and tried to gasp in more air, but the hand on his throat was too tight. He was going to pass out. He was going to–

And then, with no warning, it stopped. Castiel pulled out of him and stepped backwards, letting him go. Dean fell to his knees and choked on the floor, holding his neck and shaking uncontrollably. He felt the world spinning, everything tipping sideways, but then he managed to gulp in enough oxygen to think clearly again. 

Was Castiel done? He couldn’t be. Three thrusts weren’t enough. Castiel wasn’t finished. Castiel was...

He looked up. 

Castiel was standing over him, panting hard, an expression of utter horror on his face.

“Dean,” he said, the word catching in his throat. “I’m so sorry... I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m so sorry.”

He reached down with two fingers to heal him, but despite himself, Dean flinched. “No! Don’t. Don’t make it better. Don’t.” 

His voice was almost non-existent, but Castiel stopped anyway. “I’ve injured you,” he said, his eyes wide and regretful. “Let me heal it.”

“No. I deserved it. Don’t touch me. Just... just... come with me.” He swallowed, trying to form words that didn’t want to slide past his bruised throat. “Let’s go home, Cas.”

Castiel straightened, staring down at him anxiously. “You still want...” He shook his head. “No, Dean. This is crazy. I can’t be around you.”

Slowly, grunting with the effort and wincing at his new bruises, Dean pulled up his jeans, noting vacantly that they’d been torn apart in a few places. He managed to get to his feet and stand upright, although he wobbled alarmingly and had to lean on the wall for a moment. He could feel blood trickling down the side of his face from where his forehead had hit the bricks, and again he had to wave off Castiel’s attempt to heal him. 

“No! I told you, I deserve it.”

“You don’t deserve pain,” Castiel said softly, shaking his head. His face was a picture of regret. “I can’t believe I did this to you.”

“You’re not _well_ , Cas,” Dean ground out, wiping blood out of his left eye. “You shouldn’t have left us. Look at what you’ve been doing here. You’re not a whore, Cas. You’re my friend and I want you home.” He put his non-bloody hand on Castiel’s shoulder, squeezing it.

“This is all I know.” Castiel looked down at Dean’s hand, puzzled. “I have nothing else.”

“You have me and Sam. You have _me._ ”

“I’m too angry with you, Dean. And look at what I do when I’m angry.”

Dean pressed his fingers to his bruised throat. “Yeah, and like I said, I deserved it. Maybe we should call us even.”

Castiel stepped away and turned his back on him. Dean waited, trying to control his body, which seemed to want to shake him apart. He received worse injuries all the time on hunts, but there was something about the fact that _Castiel_ had done this that made every part of him feel tender.

“You do something bad to me, I do something bad to you.” Castiel sighed. “This isn’t a friendship, Dean. This is a power struggle. It isn’t healthy.”

“Healthy? You’re lecturing me about healthy relationships? You were just sucking some teenager’s dick in the toilets of a gay bar, Cas, how is any of that healthy?”

Castiel turned to face him again; his expression was icy. “I never said I was healthy. But you should know better.”

“I can’t apologize any more than I have, man,” Dean growled, finally losing his temper. “At some point you either have to accept it or go. But I don’t want you to go. I love you, Cas, and this can’t be the end of us. You were with those bastards for five long, awful years and they messed with you in ways I can’t even imagine. They took your head apart and put it back together again, _wrong,_ and you’ve just proved that you won’t be able to fix it by yourself. You need me.”

Castiel frowned, looking contemptuous. “And how are you going to fix me, exactly?” he spat, and Dean took a step backwards in sudden fear, his shoulders hitting the wall behind him. “Have you any idea what it’s like to only feel alive when you’re fucking? When the only time you feel _anything_ is when someone else’s pleasure surges through you, filling up all the cold spaces inside you because you don’t have a soul? I don’t just fuck people, Dean, I feed off them. They’re the only things that are keeping me going. How are you going to fix that? Are you and your brother going to do some _research_? Are you going to spend a day sitting around in that arcane library of yours, trying to find the answer in a book? It’s not there. It’s not anywhere. You can’t fix me, Dean, and... and what I just did to you proves that without any doubt.” He looked down at the floor, seeming to struggle with himself, and then added, “You should go.”

Dean had to pause for a moment, staggered by the weight of what he’d just heard. Then he croaked, “You can be fixed, Cas. I can fix you. You’ve just proved that there’s hope. You stopped yourself just now – you could’ve carried on, you could’ve kept going until the end, but you knew it was wrong and you stopped. There’s hope for you, and I can see it even if you can’t.”

“You’re wrong.” Castiel tried to leave, but Dean grabbed his arm with shaking fingers, holding him in place, suddenly desperate not to lose him. 

“If you need to fuck, if you need to feel other people come inside you to feel alive, then make it _me._ I can do that, Cas, I swear it. Losing you would be worse – I can’t lose you again, not after so long. We can work on it, we can make it – make it _normal_ , after a while, I’m sure we can. I can be there for when you need me, and you can get better, however long it takes. I’m with you all the way, Cas, I swear it.”

But Castiel didn’t seem to hear him; he shook him off and walked away without as much as a glance behind him. Dean stood and watched him disappear into the shadows of the alleyway, shivering, and then his legs buckled and he fell to his knees again. 

He sat on the cold ground for a long, long time.

 

* * *

 

“Are you okay? What the hell happened?”

Sam pounced on Dean the moment he walked through the motel room door. Dean barely even registered he was there; he was freezing, his head ached, his throat throbbed and he hurt in places he didn’t want to think about. He wasn’t even sure how he’d driven back from the bar. Everything about him felt like it was coming apart at the seams.

“Dean!” His brother shook him a little, trying to snap him out of it, and Dean blinked up at him vaguely. 

“I found him,” he croaked. 

Sam’s face fell. “Did he do this to you?”

“I deserved it,” Dean muttered, and he sat on the end of the nearest bed with a wince. Sam was silent for a few moments and Dean’s mind wandered, lethargic and beaten. Then his brother was suddenly back in his face again, dabbing at the cut on his forehead with a sterile wipe. 

“Here. Jesus, Dean, you look like shit. Is anything broken?”

“Just my heart,” Dean replied without thinking, and when he realized what he’d said, he grinned a bitter grin that was colder than the rest of him right now.

“What did he... is he okay? What happened?”

Reluctantly, his voice cracked and sore, Dean told him how he’d found Castiel at the bar and added edited highlights of what had happened in the alleyway. He didn’t tell him the lowlights, skirting around the specifics, but Sam seemed to guess that more had happened than he was hearing and – wisely – didn’t ask about it. 

“So he’s gone kinda dark side, huh?”

Dean sniffed and looked down at his hands. “He needs our help, Sammy, and I couldn’t get him to accept it. He’s just... gone.”

“He’ll come back. He always does.”

“I don’t think he will this time. You didn’t see him. He’s... he’s a different person.”

Sam scowled. “Yeah, I’d say beating the snot out of you is a sign he’s not himself.”

Dean couldn’t help but snort at that. “Yeah, well. Funnily enough, it’s not the first time Cas has beaten me up in an alley.”

Sam sat back on his heels, looking him up and down with concern. “You’re shivering. It’s not that cold out there, so I think you’re in shock. You may have a concussion.” 

“He said he only feels alive when he’s having sex,” Dean murmured, ignoring him. “Can you imagine thinking that way? That’s so messed up.”

Sam sighed. “That’s... kinda how I felt when I had no soul.” 

Dean peered up at him, surprised. “It was?”

“Yeah. But it still wasn’t enough to make me feel. Not properly, anyway.” His face settled into a thoughtful expression. “Huh. I guess Cas needs to find the angel equivalent of his soul again.”

 _That’s us,_ Dean thought, sadly. _Me and Sam. Humans. We gave him his soul. Hanging around with us gave Castiel his humanity. But he won’t do that again._

“I’m freezing,” he declared, gasping a little as he climbed to his feet. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

The motel had a full-length mirror in the bathroom. Dean wiped away the steam and twisted awkwardly to look at his back, feeling a small surge of disgust at the sight of bruises already forming on his buttocks. He shivered, remembering how it had felt to be so powerless at Castiel’s hands, how much it had hurt, and then felt a wave of sadness that almost took his breath away at the knowledge that Castiel had felt that for so many years. 

No wonder he’d packaged all that pain and defiance and helplessness up in his mind, replacing it with compliance. How else could he have coped?

Dean climbed into the shower and scrubbed his skin clean. He wished he could do the same for the last five-and-a-half years.

 

* * *

 

They left Utah and, once Dean had recovered, went on a hunt in Arkansas. Another one followed, this time in Florida. Before long they were back into their old routine, hunting across the country, spending their down time at the bunker before heading off again. 

Dean forced himself not to think about Castiel. He’d made his choice and, as wrong as it was, as misguided, Dean hadn’t been able to convince him to do anything else. And so he had to accept it, get on with his life, put Castiel in the rearview mirror. It was the only way he could function, because it hurt to think of his friend out there somewhere, in pain, prostituting himself because that’s what the demons had trained him to do and it had become his new normal.

Occasionally Dean wondered if he and Sam should hunt Castiel down and imprison him somehow, keeping him contained until he’d worked through whatever the hell he was going through his head. But it turned out to be a moot point: after a lot of discussion they tried a tracking spell that didn’t work, and after some more investigation it became clear that Castiel didn’t want to be found. 

He was gone, and that was that.

Until, after another six weeks had passed, Castiel finally got in touch.

 

* * *

 

It had taken them a few moments to figure out which phone was ringing; it was one of the older, back-up phones they kept in the Impala. Sam pulled it out and answered it without identifying himself – the phone was so old there was a chance it came with a persona, an FBI Agent or Sheriff they’d been impersonating and forgotten about. But the caller on the other end didn’t care: he wanted Dean.

“It’s Castiel,” Sam said in surprise, and held the phone out to his brother. “He wants to talk to you.”

Dean stopped the car on the nearest verge without even thinking. “Cas?” he said a moment later, taking the phone. “Are you okay?”

“I need to see you,” the familiar gravelly voice said in his ear. “It’s... complicated.”

Dean scowled. “Yeah, well, when isn’t it complicated? Where are you?”

There was a pause and then Castiel said, “Where I stroked the friendly dog.”

Dean nodded at the recollection. “Okay, we can do that. We’re a ways from home right now, so we can meet you at–” he looked at his watch, “–three o’clock?”

“Good,” said Castiel simply. “But just you, Dean.” 

And he was gone.

Dean looked down at the phone, feeling worry skitter around in his stomach. “He wants to meet me.”

Sam studied his face, then looked away. “What do you think he wants?”

Dean started the car again. “Knowing him right now, nothin’ good.”

His brother took the phone and studied it thoughtfully. “This is probably the only number he remembered. Wow, we haven’t used this phone in years.”

Dean grunted. “Back when all we had to worry about was the latest apocalypse. Simpler times, huh?”

 

* * *

 

The angel was sitting on the bench when Dean arrived. It was early autumn now, a little warmer than it had been on their last visit, but the sky was gray and the wind was chilly. The reservoir seemed deserted and the café was closed; there were no dog-walkers in sight.

“Hey,” Dean said, sitting down beside him.

Castiel was dressed in the same outfit he’d been wearing at the bar: a smart black shirt and dark cargo pants. It was a good look for him, but when he turned to face Dean he appeared tired and worn, stubble darkening his jawline. 

“Hello, Dean,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”

“Well, isn’t this formal,” Dean observed wryly.

Castiel seemed to sag a little. He looked out at the water, then lowered his head. “I think... I think I need your help.”

 _At last._ Dean felt a surge of triumph. “You know you’ve got it, Cas. I’m glad you came back.”

“I had no choice,” Castiel said, and then fell silent. 

Dean didn’t speak; he had a feeling he was gearing up to say something else, and he was right. 

“It... it has been getting worse. I am struggling. What the demons did to me... it was something fundamental. I have forgotten who I was and I can’t seem to find him again. I have memories, but... it’s like they’re of a different person entirely.”

Dean said nothing.

Castiel looked sideways, meeting his eyes. “The last time we met, there was one thing you told me, over and over again. I wasn’t listening – not really. But I think I finally am. You said you loved me, and you wanted to help.”

“It’s still true.”

Castiel nodded, looking relieved. “I am happy to hear it.” He looked out at the water again, the wind ruffling his hair. “The last few months have been... difficult. It was difficult before, but...” He sighed and closed his eyes. “Sex has become something I can’t control. I need it, it’s an addiction, but I hate that I can’t stop myself. It has taken over. I have even–” 

He stopped, clamping his lips shut.

Dean waited, raising his eyebrows. “Cas?” When there was no response, he nudged him. “You can tell me. There’s no judgment here, you know that. Not after everything I’ve done over the years. I’ll understand.”

Castiel’s shoulders slumped. “I started hunting the demons who tormented me,” he said, the words slow and stilted. “At first I told myself I was gaining revenge, but it became more than that. I wanted... I wanted to fuck them before I killed them. I wanted them to... suffer what I...” He stopped again, running a hand over his face. “But I couldn’t. I managed to stop myself, and I realized that I’m not better, I’m still broken, and I don’t think I’ll ever be over this. I need help, Dean, I need someone to stop me when I’m... like that. It’s not what I want to be, and I hate myself, Dean. I hate what I’ve become.” 

Dean stared at him in perfect empathy, feeling his heart lift despite the awfulness of those words. Castiel wanted to change. This was good. As bad as it was that he’d reached this point, it was encouraging that he was here now. 

“You’ve been going through all of that alone?” he said gently. “No wonder you’re freakin’ out, man. Look, I understand the whole ‘revenge’ thing – you already know it’s the reason I watched some of those videos.” Castiel’s face twitched. “But there comes a point where it can just eat you up and you have to let it go, and it sounds like you’re there already. And you’ve done the right thing by coming back. We can get you through this. You just have to be patient. We’ll look after you.”

“But I can’t see an end to feeling this way,” Castiel said, and his voice broke on the words. “I hate this existence and I don’t see how I can be anything else. I keep hearing this phrase in my head, over and over – _I’m a filthy angel whore, I’m a filthy angel whore_ – and I know it’s not true, it _can’t_ be true, but then I can’t stop myself from going out and... and making it true. It’s just... endless... I just want to be fucked, I want to feel what other people feel as they... as they... but I don’t really feel anything myself, Dean, I’m cold and empty inside. There’s nothing inside of me, nothing, just empty space... I’m not an angel, I’m not a human, I’m just this... this... thing... and all I can do is fuck, all I can do is make other people come inside me and I can feel it, it’s warm, it’s the only warmth I can feel, and I can also feel what they’re feeling, but it doesn’t last and there’s... it’s like an echo... there’s nothing left for me, nothing inside me except darkness–”

The words began to run into each other as Castiel seemed to lose control of himself, almost babbling, and Dean couldn’t let him go on. Making a split-second decision, he pulled him into a hug, muffling the words against his coat, squeezing him tight against his chest.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

Castiel went stiff and solid in his arms and Dean had a few seconds of regret – had he overstepped? – before, finally, the angel melted into him. Fingers dug into his chest, scrabbling desperately at nothing before falling away, and then suddenly Castiel seemed to give up and he started sobbing: great, heaving sobs of pain and grief, his shoulders jerking with every sound. 

Dean held him as tight as he could, tears running down his own cheeks, and then with melodramatically perfect timing the heavens opened and a cold, heavy rain started to fall, soaking them both through in seconds.

There was nothing at all for while except Castiel’s wracking, desperate sobs and the sound of rain hitting the ground around them, splashing onto the vast reservoir that reached almost to the horizon. Finally, as Dean felt himself start to shiver, Castiel seemed to gather himself together and pulled away. He sat with his whole body bent over, as though he just couldn’t hold himself upright any more, rain dripping from the hair on his forehead in a steady stream. He looked pitiful, and Dean stood up and held a hand out to him. 

“Come on, Cas. Let’s get you home.”

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t like it had been the last time. Castiel didn’t follow them around the bunker, watching their day-to-day movements with interest, occasionally joining in conversations and generally being _present_. This time he sat at the table in the library and stared off into space, looking small and miserable. At night he’d either stay there or he’d go into his bedroom and sit on his bed for hours, unmoving, only to be waiting for the Winchesters the next morning when they went back out to the library. He barely spoke. He didn’t respond to questions. He just... sat there.

“I don’t know, man,” Dean said to Sam as they made lunch in the kitchen. “I don’t know if we can get through to him when he’s like this. It’s like he’s somewhere else.”

“It’s PTSD, Dean. You don’t just come out of that overnight. He needs time.”

“At least he’s not out there working his way through every man on Grindr,” Dean huffed, messily slapping butter on his sandwich.

Sam looked stricken. “Do you think he used that?”

Dean stopped spreading. He’d only been joking, but... “God, I hope not.”

“I suppose it would make things easier for him if he did. Technology is really useful these days if you want a quick hook-up.”

“And you’re an expert on Grindr because...?”

Sam ignored him. “Look, he’s had a quiet few days. He hasn’t been anywhere or done anything or... anyone. Hopefully he’ll start to perk up a bit soon, and we’re here if he wants to talk. That’s all we can offer. There’s no magic fix for this.”

Dean sighed. “Yeah, I know. But it sucks to watch him like this, y’know?”

“At least he’s here.” Sam sat down, picking up his smoothie. “Think about where he was for five years compared to sitting in the library, looking sad.”

“I’d rather not, thanks,” Dean said, shuddering. “I’ve seen enough of it to last a lifetime.” 

 

* * *

 

On the third night, Dean woke from a dreamless sleep and blinked up at the shadows on the ceiling, bleary-eyed. He was comfortable and warm and had no idea what had woken him up, but as he went to roll over and burrow his face into the pillow he caught movement from the corner of his eye. In a flash, all his hunter’s instincts firing off at once, he grabbed for his knife and snapped on the light beside his bed.

Castiel was sitting on the end of his mattress, watching him calmly. 

Dean dropped the knife, shaking his head in annoyance. “All this time and you _still_ do this. What’s so fascinating about watching me sleep, anyway?”

Castiel’s expression was unreadable, but Dean suddenly realized that they were alone in a room with a bed in it, and the angel had told him only a few days ago that he was a sex addict. He pulled the blankets up self-consciously and Castiel’s eyes narrowed as he clearly understood why.

“Cas?” Dean asked, feeling a little defensive. 

“Perhaps I should go,” Castiel said, and he went to stand up. 

“No, no, stay.” Dean rubbed sleep out of his eyes and sighed. “What is it, Cas, really? Do you need to talk?”

Castiel sat down again, although he seemed tense. He said nothing for a while, and it struck Dean that perhaps he’d been feeling lonely and that’s why he was there. Even watching someone sleep was better than being completely by yourself sometimes. 

“You okay?” he asked.

Castiel looked down at his hands and frowned. “It was quite an ingenious way to control an angel, even if it was a painful one.”

“What was?” In all honesty, Dean was still half-asleep.

“The Oxidiens,” Castiel explained. “The witch who revived them and put them on me was very clever. I would say almost at the same level as Rowena, with a few shortcomings.”

“You remember Rowena, huh?”

Castiel stared over at him. “Yes. I remember almost everything now, I think. But it’s all... objective. I can’t _feel_ much of it. It doesn’t feel like it happened to me.”

“That must be pretty weird.” Dean tried to imagine what it would be like to look back on a lifetime without any emotion at all, and the only thing he could compare it to was something Sam had said once: that it was like having no soul.

Or being an angel who had spent millennia unable to feel, until he fell in love with humanity. 

“I can understand how I felt in an abstract sense,” Castiel said, sounding thoughtful. “I remember times when I was angry, or sad, or amused. I know I _was_ that. But there’s none of the actual emotion left. It’s quite fascinating.”

“I’m sure it is, Mr Spock. But it’s not going to stay that way, okay? Whatever it is inside you that needs jump leads is going to start up again. I promise you.”

Castiel looked down at his wrists again, and didn’t speak. Dean waited patiently, and then impatiently, until finally he said: “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I... I am struggling,” Castiel said, without looking up. “Normally when I feel like this, I would find someone to fuck.”

Dean swallowed nervously. 

“I assume you wouldn’t want me to do that.”

“You assume right.” Dean sat more upright, thinking hard, sleep a long way off now. “Look, it’s tough being addicted to something. All you can do is, I dunno, distract yourself. Do something else. Try to take your mind off it. And I guess it’s important to know why you want it in the first place, so you can focus on retraining your brain not to want it at all.”

Castiel stared at him, curious. Dean felt the intensity of his gaze and his resolve wavered slightly, but he carried on regardless. “How are you feeling right now, Cas?” he ventured. “Describe what’s in your head.”

Castiel’s eyes unfocused, just a little. “I am... empty,” he said.

“Empty how?” Even as Dean asked it, he found himself thinking, _Does he mean that in the literal sense? Is he craving someone being physically inside him? Jesus, I hope not._

But Castiel managed to elaborate. “I feel as though there is nothing except the emptiness,” he said. “There is a hole inside me, deep and black. I am... cold. I’m not alive, not in an... emotional sense.”

Dean felt his heart sink. “That sounds like depression.”

Castiel nodded slowly. “I’m aware that depression exists,” he said. “Perhaps that’s what this is. All I know is... if I’m with someone, it lifts. Just a little. I feel as though there are... colors once more.”

“If you’re with someone sexually, you mean?”

He nodded again.

Dean frowned. “Have you tried being with someone _non_ -sexually?”

“I don’t understand.”

“What I mean is... you’ve been meeting strangers and having sex, desperately trying to find a connection. But there are other ways to have a connection with someone, Cas. Through friendship, y’know? Solidarity. Just being in someone else’s presence. Hanging out. Being close without getting... too close. You can, uh, fill that hole inside you without actually filling any holes, if you get what I mean.”

Castiel shook his head. “I have been spending time with you and Sam for the last few days and it hasn’t helped, Dean.”

“Yeah, you’ve been sitting near us, but you’ve been lost in your own little world. Maybe you need to try something else.”

“Such as?”

Dean thought hard and fast, and the result was unexpected. He weighed it up and decided _what the hell, why not?_ in a matter of moments. 

“Here,” he said, throwing back his blankets. “Get in.”

Castiel went very, very still. 

“Not like that,” Dean hastened, realizing how that must have sounded. “This isn’t a sex thing. It really isn’t. I just think you need to... I dunno, share some body heat. Be close to someone without feeling you have to do anything else. We’re close, right? Friends? We can do this. It’ll feel a bit weird, but it’s better than you being out there in the cold. I mean that figuratively and literally.”

Castiel hesitated, clearly struggling with the concept of _being in bed with someone_ not automatically meaning _sex_. Dean, too, felt his heart in his mouth: he could be making a massive mistake here. What if sharing a bed with Castiel resulted in the angel trying something with him? And what if he couldn’t resist? Castiel looked so vulnerable right now, so lost, and all Dean wanted to do was hold him, but he was also someone he was deeply attracted to on a sexual level. He had a sudden memory of Castiel riding on his cock a few months ago with that oh-so-majestic look on his face and a shiver ran down his spine.

“I... I don’t feel that would be appropriate,” Castiel said, looking worried.

“You can trust me,” Dean promised, shoving the recollection down inside him. “Come on.”

Castiel rose and went to climb across the mattress, but Dean stopped him. “Dude! Shoes. Were you born in a barn?”

Castiel seemed confused for a moment, then unlaced his boots and placed them on the floor. He looked down at his cargo pants and frowned. “Do you need me to...?”

“No, no. Clothes on. You’re good. This isn’t really a naked thing.”

Castiel nodded and crawled into bed beside Dean, who waited until they were level and then threw the blankets back over them both. Then he realized, annoyed, that he only had one pillow, so he climbed out of bed and fetched another. Castiel rolled onto his side and, taking a cue from him, Dean did the same thing so that they were face-to-face.

They lay gazing at each other for a short while. Dean was so close that he could count Castiel’s eyelashes, feel his breath on his face – and just as he realized how intimate this was, he felt a warmth spark inside him. 

_No. Stop it. This is not the time._

“Are you sure you don’t want... anything?” Castiel murmured, frowning. “I could–” He reached out a hand beneath the covers, but Dean pulled away sharply.

“No! No, we don’t need that. We’re cool. This is platonic, okay? We’re just keeping each other company.”

Castiel raised his eyebrows. “I can sense that you want more than that, Dean. I think even if I _didn’t_ have angelic powers I could sense that you want more than that.”

Dean rolled onto his back, putting his hands over his face. “Arrgh! This is so frustrating.” He stared up at the ceiling for a few moments, then lay on his side again. “Look, Cas. I’m not making a secret out of the fact that I’m attracted to you. You can feel it, and I’m not gonna lie to you – I would love to have sex with you right now.”

“Then why don’t we–”

He put two fingers on Castiel’s lips to shush him. “We’re not, okay? We’re not. You’ve had your head messed with for _years_. Sex means something different to you than it does to me, and I’m not sure you’re in the right headspace to consent. I’m not sure I am, either. It would feel like... well, it wouldn’t feel right. And first and foremost, we’re friends, right? You need something else right now. Comfort, I guess. Not another person using your body like a trampoline. There’s more to you than sex, Cas.”

Castiel frowned. “If we’re not going to have sex, then why am I in your bed? Why is this _comforting?_ ”

“Because you’re not alone, okay?” Dean reached over to turn out the light. “Okay, turn away from me.”

“I still don’t–”

“Cas, trust me.”

Hesitantly, Castiel turned so that his back was facing Dean. Dean took a deep breath and gave himself a stern talking-to – _don’t get hard, don’t get hard_ – and then lay himself against Castiel’s back, wrapping his arms around him from behind, spooning him. It felt bizarrely impersonal doing this to someone fully clothed; he’d only ever done it when he and his partner had been mostly naked, and to be honest he hadn’t done it many times at all, really. But fully-clothed or not, Castiel was warm and solid against his body, and it felt pleasant to have someone in his arms after... well, forever. 

For a while they both lay silently: a human offering as much comfort as he could to an angel. 

“You’re not alone,” Dean whispered against Castiel’s neck. “You hear me? You’re not alone. We’re a team, Cas.” He squeezed him tighter.

Castiel’s body was tense against him. Dean lay still, feeling his own heartbeat slow down, willing his partner to relax in the same way. After a little while something did happen, but it wasn’t quite what he’d anticipated. Castiel began to tremble. 

“Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Castiel said softly, after a pause. He didn’t sound very convincing. 

“Then why are you shaking?” Dean asked, suspicious.

Castiel made a noise that sounded oddly like a whimper. 

“What’s wrong?” Dean said, loosening his grip. “Do you need me to let you go?”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said brokenly. “I feel as though... I can’t stop thinking that I’m back in that bed and you’re one of them. I know you’re not, I know it rationally, but – it’s irrational, I can’t... this feels wrong, Dean.”

Dean suddenly felt sick. He released Castiel and sat back, horrified.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said again, unmoving. Dean couldn’t see much in the gloom, but he could hear the strain in his voice. “You were making me feel... confined.”

“Jesus, man. I didn’t realize it would affect you that way. I’m the one who should be sorry.”

Slowly, Castiel sat up. “No, you were just trying to be kind. Never apologize for that.”

A silence fell, and Dean was at a loss for what to say or do next. How could he ever help Castiel when he was so traumatized that even something as simple as lying close to him freaked him out? What the hell was Dean doing here, anyway? He wasn’t a psychiatrist or a counselor, he had no idea what kind of things were going through Castiel’s head right now. Sure, he’d been through terrible experiences himself, but Castiel wasn’t like him. The way his mind worked, the way he was behaving – Dean couldn’t understand it, not really, even though he was trying.

“I wish I could help,” he said at last.

“It’s enough that you want to,” Castiel said, and he sounded sad. “I should go. You need to sleep.”

Dean watched as he climbed out of bed, picked up his boots and left the room. 

He didn’t get much sleep.

 

* * *

 

Castiel was quiet again the next day. Dean tried to engage with him, tried to draw him out, but he was distant and monosyllabic. Sam asked for his help with some research and Castiel agreed, which seemed like a good sign, but in the end he opened a book and then just sat there, staring at the same page for a long time, reading nothing.

It was like he wasn’t really there with them, and Dean was reminded of how he’d had that vacant look on his face so often while he’d still had the manacles on. Castiel was healed now – physically, at least – but even though his memories were back, he was still that broken, scared prisoner underneath it all. He couldn’t even stand to have someone cuddle him! How innocuous was it to spoon someone? How was that something that could trigger _fear?_

“Give him time,” Sam whispered, catching his brother staring at Castiel from across the room. 

Dean didn’t reply. Angels lived for a very, very long time. How much time would he need?

 

* * *

 

That night, he was just about to turn out the light and go to sleep when there was a hesitant knock on the door. It was Castiel.

“Hey,” Dean said, surprised.

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel stopped in the doorway, looking awkward.

“You can come in, you know.”

Castiel took a step forward, closing the door behind him. He seemed distracted. He looked around the room, his eyes falling everywhere except for the bed, and didn’t seem as though he was going to say anything else.

“How are you feeling?” Dean asked, to break the silence.

He gazed at the floor, apparently steeling himself to speak; Dean waited patiently. 

“I don’t want to be alone,” Castiel said, finally. He made it sound like an admission of guilt.

“You’re welcome to stay,” Dean offered. 

Castiel nodded, but he didn’t move.

Dean sighed. “Okay, sunshine, you got two choices. You can sit on the chair over there and watch me sleep, which is really kind of creepy but I suppose I’m used to it by now. Or you can get in here with me and I promise I won’t touch you. Not like last night. Your call. I don’t know how you feel about either of those options, but it’s all I’ve got.”

Castiel paused for a moment, then went and sat on the chair.

“Good,” Dean said, although he couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. “Do you want to talk?”

“I... no, not really.”

Dean waited, then nodded. “I guess I’ll go to sleep, then. Look, if you... feel bad, if you need anything, wake me up, okay? I won’t mind.” He almost added _unless it’s for sex_ , but he assumed he should probably give Castiel the benefit of the doubt on that one. He knew it was wrong by now.

“I understand,” Castiel said. He was sitting stiffly on the chair, looking pale and uncomfortable, and Dean’s heart went out to him. But there was nothing he could do, so he turned out the light and lay back.

“Goodnight, Cas,” he said.

“Goodnight, Dean.”

It took him a while to fall asleep, but when he finally did, he slept better than he had in a long time. Perhaps having someone watch over him wasn’t a bad thing after all.

 

* * *

 

Castiel wasn’t there when Dean woke the next morning. He found him in the kitchen with Sam, who was making pancakes because apparently even fruit-and-vegetable freaks needed stodge sometimes. 

Sam gave him an odd, appraising look when he walked in, and for a moment Dean wondered what had happened, but then his brother returned to his task.

Something _was_ different, though: Castiel was watching Sam cook. 

He was studying Sam’s hands through narrowed eyes, watching every action carefully. It was strange seeing him so intent on something after so long spent just staring off into space, and it stopped Dean dead in his tracks. 

Sam shot him a _don’t say anything, you might spook him_ look and carried on with what he was doing, and Dean took the hint, striking up a conversation without mentioning that Castiel seemed engaged for once.

It happened, on and off, all day. He didn’t speak unless he was spoken to, but otherwise Castiel was more focused, more alert, than he had been in a long time. 

It was nice.

But Sam kept shooting Dean strange glances, and when he asked what was going on his brother just shrugged. 

Normality still wasn’t quite as normal as Dean would like.

 

* * *

 

Castiel visited him again that night. He hovered at the end of the bed, watching as Dean changed his t-shirt and smoothed down the sheets. 

“You sitting on the chair or are you getting in here?” Dean asked.

Castiel sat on the chair.

 

* * *

 

“Dean, can we talk? Away from Cas?”

His brother’s voice was so quiet that Dean almost didn’t hear him. Leaving Castiel behind in the kitchen, he followed Sam through the bunker’s corridors and wondered what the hell was going on when they ended up in the dungeon.

Sam closed the door. “I don’t want him to hear us.” He ran his hands through his hair, clearly agitated, and Dean raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“You okay, Sammy?”

“Am _I_ okay? How about you, Dean? What the hell is goin’ on with you and Cas?”

Dean blinked. “Huh?”

Sam scowled his mightiest scowl. “I’m not an idiot, Dean. He’s been staying in your room every night. Are you two having _sex_? After everything he’s been through? Are you _insane_? He can barely even talk some days, he barely even registers where he is or who we are and he’s spent the last few months roaming the streets looking for men to hook up with because those demons messed him up in ways I can’t even imagine – but you think it’s perfectly okay to _sleep with him?_ First those videos and now this! What is wrong with you?”

“Whoa whoa whoa!” Dean raised his hands, stung. “Calm down, Sam, it’s not what you think.”

“What the hell else am I supposed to think? Why else would he spend every night in your room? Are you trying to tell me you guys just _spoon_ every night?”

The image, so unfortunately evocative, almost hit him like a physical blow. Dean had to turn away, leaning on a bookshelf, taking a deep breath. “You have no idea how–” He stopped, gathering his wits. “Okay, shut up for a bit. Let me talk.”

He told him everything: how he’d tried to reach out to Castiel as a friend, how Castiel had panicked, how things were still weird but they weren’t, thankfully, sexual. Sam listened, still frowning, but by the end his face had smoothed out a little. 

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on with him, Sam, I never do,” Dean finished, with a sigh. “But maybe just sharing a room with me... I dunno. He’s been better the last two days, hasn’t he? I haven’t done anything to him and I won’t let him do anything to me, I swear. But he’s lonely. He’s sad. I’m trying to make him feel better.”

Sam was silent for a while, processing. “Okay, I get it,” he said eventually, considerably calmer. “But Dean... where do you see this going?”

“You mean Cas? That he’ll go back to how he was, of course.”

“No, I mean... you two.” Sam shook his head. “You love him, Dean, anybody can see that. And I think he used to love you too, before the demons got their hands on him. But now – even if he does get past this – how can you be sure what he really wants? He’s not the same Castiel, Dean. I don’t think he ever will be again. I don’t want you to... to think there’s a future with him. You’re going to get hurt. Or he is.”

Dean didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Sam turned away, rubbing his jaw. “I guess this is none of my business. I just... I care about you both, and the closer you two get, the more I think this is all gonna come crashing down.”

“Of course it’s gonna come crashing down,” Dean said, feeling sadness wash over him. “That’s what happens with us. We never get the happy ending, Sam, but at least I’m expecting it. Cas could get better or he could be screwed up for the rest of eternity, who knows? But all I can do is focus on trying to help him. You said it yourself: I’m–” 

He stopped for a moment, because saying it out loud to Sam was surprisingly hard. 

“...I’m in love with him,” he finished, almost defiantly. “I think I always have been. And yes, he used to love me. I’m sure of it. He loves me now, too, but it’s all twisted up and dark. I don’t know if I can untangle all that inside him and make it good again, but I’m going to try.”

He leaned forward and took his brother’s arm. “But I won’t overstep any boundaries, Sam. You have to believe that. This whole thing has been so sick and wrong, and I’ve done... horrible things. But I want it to be good now.”

Sam nodded, looking a little emotional, and then to Dean’s surprise he reached out and pulled him into a hug. “You know I’m there for you, right?” he muttered into his ear.

Dean hugged him back, swallowing hard. “Thanks, Sammy.”

 

* * *

 

Castiel was sitting on the end of the bed when Dean went to his room that night. He looked up as Dean walked in, his eyes wide and his face pale. Dean was sick of seeing that expression on his face – apprehension. Fear. Uncertainty. 

“You okay?” he asked, closing the door behind him, already knowing the answer.

“It’s bad,” said Castiel quietly. 

“What is?”

“How I... feel. Right now.”

Dean sighed. “You seemed okay earlier today, man. What changed?”

“It... never really goes away. But you were right – distractions can help. I managed to do that, today. But... it’s still here. I’m cold and I’m empty.” He looked down at his hands, one finger stroking a long-healed wrist. “I’m sorry, Dean, I don’t think I’m... strong enough to get through this.”

Dean sat beside him. “Cas, you’re the strongest person I know. You already got through this. You’re in the final stages, I swear. You can do it.”

“I wish I could believe you,” Castiel said, his voice bitter. 

Dean wanted to put an arm around him. He wanted it more than anything, but he wasn’t sure how Castiel would react. He remembered sitting on the bench by the reservoir and how Castiel had wept into his shirt, relaxing in his arms, but they weren’t there now. They were sitting on a bed and Castiel wanted sex; he was being eaten alive by the feeling. Dean couldn’t touch him. Not now. 

“Does watching me sleep help you?” he asked instead.

Castiel closed his eyes. “Yes. A little. I concentrate on your breathing. It’s calming. And I can feel you... dream. It’s a distraction.”

Well, that wasn’t creepy at all. Dean ignored it, though: it was hardly the first time Castiel had monitored his dreams. “Okay. Look, maybe we should try sharing the bed again. No touching, I swear. But you can watch me sleep from a few inches away instead of from across the room. We can be closer. Maybe you’ll find it comforting. I don’t know.”

Castiel hesitated, then nodded. “Perhaps.”

Without thinking, Dean patted him on the shoulder, then inwardly cursed when he felt Castiel flinch. _Dammit._ Pretending he hadn’t noticed, he stood and got undressed, watching as Castiel removed his boots and climbed into the other side of the bed. 

And then they were lying on their sides, staring at each other, face-to-face across the pillows. Dean had turned out the light and couldn’t see much, but he knew that with his celestial powers Castiel could see him perfectly, which was kind of a headfuck when he really thought about it, so he didn’t.

“So,” he said, eventually. “This is kind of weird, huh?”

“It’s much better being able see your face,” Castiel observed. “Before, you were behind me. It felt... threatening.”

Dean felt a twinge of guilt. “I still feel bad about that.”

“You weren’t to know.”

“Yeah, well. I should’ve thought about it some more.”

Castiel sighed, his breath warming Dean’s cheek. “I remember you from before the demons took me, Dean,” he said. “I remember our relationship. I wanted you, but I didn’t really understand what it was that I wanted. I felt certain urges, but they were alien to me. And then I was... I was _there_ , and they gave me some kind of... substance. I don’t know what it was. It would surge through me, take me over; I couldn’t fight it. It would make those urges... stronger. And I would think about you, because I associated that feeling with you. But most of all, you were a light in all that darkness. The drug they gave me helped me visualize you, it made you seem real. But you weren’t. It was them. It was always them.”

Dean went cold. “I’m so sorry they did that to you.”

“I believe I am starting to accept it,” Castiel said, his voice emotionless. “All those lost years... it’s nothing, just a blip in the long road of my life.” His voice lowered. “But that means that you are, too, and I don’t want to waste any more of that time.”

Dean caught his breath as fingers suddenly trailed down his cheek. A few moments later they were followed by lips, warm and wet on his skin, and he closed his eyes, willing himself to pull away. 

“We can’t do this,” he whispered, and then Castiel was kissing his mouth and he couldn’t speak or think or worry at all.

Castiel was gentle and soft, barely using his tongue, kissing him as though he didn’t want to hurt him, and Dean held back too: it didn’t feel right to do anything else. This was nice. It didn’t feel erotic. It felt _sweet._ It felt as though they were both kissing for the first time and it wasn’t going to go anywhere – they were just testing each other, making sure they fitted together. And they did. They really did.

Finally Castiel pulled away, leaving a warm hand on Dean’s neck. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to fuck?” he asked.

Dean felt a pang of horror shoot through him; all the joy of the last few minutes faded at the bluntness of the question. 

“No, Cas,” he said, carefully keeping his voice even. “We can’t. We really can’t. We can be intimate, like this, but it wouldn’t be right to do anything else.”

“I don’t care about what’s right.”

“I do.” Dean lifted a hand and placed it on the warm palm on his neck, squeezing it. “You’re nearly there, Cas. You’re getting back to how you were, I know it. But right now? You’re still messed up. I can’t take advantage of you.”

Castiel moved a little closer to him under the blankets, nudging at his crotch with his knee. “I want to take advantage of you,” he hissed.

Dean shuddered. “Yeah, well, we can’t always get what we want.”

“Let me fuck you,” Castiel murmured, and that was all Dean could stand. He sat up and turned on the light, running his hands through his hair and turning away.

There was a long, awkward silence, and then Castiel sat up too. “I’m sorry.”

“You can’t help yourself. It’s okay.”

“I can feel how much you want me, too,” Castiel said, his voice pleading. “How can it be wrong if we both feel like this?”

“Because I don’t trust that what you’re feeling is real, Cas,” Dean said, meeting his eyes. “Look at what they did to you, seriously. You just told me they drugged you and you thought you were with me. And I’ve seen it, Cas, I’ve watched the videos. I can’t honestly expect you to know your own mind when you spent so long under their control. You need more time.”

Castiel stared at him, his jaw twitching, and then looked away. “I feel warmer when I’m with you,” he said, his voice strangled. “How is that wrong? I’m so cold. All the time, I’m so cold. And you’re like a furnace to me.”

Dean felt tears fill his eyes; he couldn’t help himself. “That’s how you are to me, Castiel. I’m sorry. I know it seems crazy, but we have to wait. Some day, maybe, but not today.”

Castiel nodded, his shoulders tense, and then climbed off the mattress. He bent to pick up his shoes and Dean grabbed his arm. “No, don’t go.”

“What would you have me do, Dean? I can’t lie next to you. It’s too much.”

“Then sit on the chair. Watch me sleep. Feel me dream. It’s all I can offer.”

Castiel stood motionless and Dean held his breath. Then he walked over to the chair and sat down.

“We’ll get through this,” Dean promised him.

He turned out the light, but for a long time he could still see Castiel’s eyes glinting in the gloom.

 

* * * 

 

It became a pattern that lasted for weeks. Castiel spent the nights on the chair in Dean’s bedroom and his days interacting with the Winchesters, sometimes more enthusiastically than others, but any interaction was better than nothing. Occasionally Sam went off on a hunt, then Dean, but one of them always stayed in the bunker with their friend. They weren’t sure that they trusted him not to run away again, although neither of them said it aloud. Sometimes Castiel really did seem twitchy, anxious, as though he was going to head off back to his old life of trawling bars for sex, and Sam and Dean had to work hard to keep him busy and take his mind off whatever forces were burning so furiously inside him.

And slowly – achingly slowly – things started to improve. 

Castiel would join in some conversations. He would help out researching hunts. His face lost the pale, worried look that had haunted him for so long now, and he stopped playing with the invisible marks on his wrists when he was struggling mentally. He asked questions, he offered to help make food, and a few times he even went grocery shopping on his own. 

He always came back.

Eventually, after enough time had passed that they felt it might be okay, the brothers asked if Castiel wanted to join them on a hunt. They phrased it to sound as though they needed his help, but it was fairly obvious that they just wanted to see if he was well enough to function outside of the bunker for longer than an hour.

Castiel said yes.

 

* * *

 

It was a long drive, but it was worth it for the scenery. A wendigo had been hunting in Wisconsin’s Chequamegon-Nicolet National Forest and, as the three of them followed a trail through dense trees to the last reported kill, the sky was blue and the air felt fresh and clear. 

It was a cold day, however, and Dean found himself wishing he’d put on an extra pair of socks that morning. He knew that Castiel couldn’t feel the cold, but every time he looked over at him in his thin shirt and cargo pants, he shivered. He couldn’t help it.

They walked for three miles before finding the spot the Sheriff had told them about, only to find that someone else had beaten them to it.

“Well, I’ll be! The Winchesters!”

Dean blinked in surprise. “Carlos?”

“The one and only,” Carlos smiled, and leaned over to give him a brief, back-slapping hug. He was an easy-mannered Puerto Rican who’d been hunting for as long as the brothers had been alive. “Let me guess – you heard about our little leathery friend.”

“We didn’t know you were taking care of it,” Sam said, patting Carlos on the shoulder. “Any leads?”

“There are two caves a few hours from here and I reckon he’s holed up in one of them,” Carlos replied, hoisting a shotgun and a flare gun over one shoulder with the ease of someone who was used to carrying such weapons. “I was just gonna check ’em out. Wanna split up and kill two birds with one stone?”

“Sure,” Dean nodded, grinning. “Any back-up is a bonus. Have you met Castiel?”

Carlos held out a hand. Dean watched, suddenly tense, as Castiel hesitated, then took it without flinching.

“Aren’t you freezing?” Carlos asked, frowning at Castiel’s clothing.

“I am impervious to cold,” Castiel said, but then he blinked uncertainly and glanced over at Dean, who could almost hear him saying _I’m so cold_ in his head.

“He’s an angel,” Sam said, by way of explanation. 

Carlos’s eyebrows shot up so far they almost disappeared under his hairline. “Thought all the feathery bastards had scooted back up to Heaven,” he said, then winced. “Er, if you excuse the turn of phrase.”

Castiel almost, but not quite, smiled. “You’re quite accurate in many ways. Technically we all had one Father and He wasn’t married, so yes, we are indeed bastards. I don’t have much in the way of feathers these days, however.”

Carlos continued to stare at him until Sam nudged his arm. “Come on, we’ll go this way. Are you two okay finding the other cave?”

“It’s been a while since I went spelunking,” Dean observed, taking the map Carlos held out to him. “Sounds like fun.”

 

* * *

 

It was not fun. 

The caves were wet and slippery and smelled really, really bad. Judging by the evidence, Dean assumed that they usually housed a bear, and bears weren’t too picky about what they ate or where they went to the bathroom, so... yuck. 

But after an hour of searching there was no sign of a wendigo or its lair. He and Castiel were trying to decide what to do next when Dean’s phone rang. 

“Hey, we got it,” Sam announced, sounding breathless.

Dean felt a wave of relief. “You okay?” 

“Carlos got a few cuts and bruises but nothing serious. We’re good, it’s done. Meet you back at the car?”

“Sure.” He looked up at the sun. “I’m not sure we’ll get back before dark – we’re quite far out.”

“Yeah, us too. Hey, there are bears and wolves in this forest, so keep your eyes peeled after sunset.”

Dean couldn’t help but smile. “If we spend our whole lives hunting supernatural creatures and get taken out by Gentle Ben, I’d say that’s kinda funny.”

“I’m not sure that’s funny, Dean, that’s irony.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, thanks for the English lesson, dork. See you later.”

He put his phone back in his pocket and glanced over at Castiel, who was gazing up at the sky with a peaceful look on his face. For a moment Dean stared at him, drinking in the sight of him seeming... not _happy_ , as such, but certainly calm. Then he said, “Time to go.”

Castiel nodded, looking across at him. “Of course.”

They walked in silence, but it wasn’t awkward. It actually felt companionable, and, for once, Dean found his mind wandering to things that weren’t about hunting or what had happened to Castiel: television shows he’d been watching, music he had to catch up with, whether the Impala needed new tires any time soon. It felt normal. 

It had been a long time since he’d felt that way.

They were half an hour from the car when Castiel suddenly stopped in the middle of a meadow. At first Dean didn’t notice, but then he turned and waited, puzzled. 

Castiel was looking up at the sky again. It was glowing orange and gold, the setting sun casting long shadows over the grass in that clear, hard-edged way that only a winter sunset could. Dean watched him for a little while, curious as to why he’d stopped, before his cold toes reminded him that they still had some walking to do before he’d be able to feel them again. He was just about to ask Castiel to get a move on when two clouds unexpectedly parted and Dean caught his breath, stunned. 

Hit by a sunbeam, Castiel’s face was suddenly bathed in light. He looked exquisite, like someone had carved him out of golden marble. For the first time in more time than Dean could remember, the angel looked... _angelic_ again. He looked alive. He looked full of color. He looked... 

_Warm._

Dean stared, and as impossible as it seemed, warmth started to creep back into his body as well. His toes stopped complaining. His fingers tingled. His heart felt as though it was glowing. 

God, Castiel was incredible to look at. _Why did he ever look at anything else?_

And then Castiel lowered his eyes and gazed across at him, a faint smile on his lips. 

“You okay?” Dean asked. It was millionth time he’d asked Castiel if he was okay that year, and somehow it was the first time he knew that the answer would be _yes._

“Yes,” Castiel nodded. “This place is beautiful. I feel at peace here.”

“Mother Nature has that effect on a lot of people,” Dean observed, walking over to his side. The grass was crisp and half-frozen under his boots. “Of course, Mother Nature also has tricks up her sleeve, like throwing bears and wolves at unsuspecting hikers.”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed. “The nearest bear is two miles away. The nearest wolves ate a young white-tailed deer this morning and are currently sleeping it off.”

Dean tilted his head, impressed. “You can sense all that, huh?”

“Yes.” Castiel raised his face to the sunset again. “I can sense a lot of things.”

Dean didn’t say anything. He felt strange, like something had changed between them, but for the life of him he couldn’t understand what it was.

“I’m back,” said Castiel, as though he was answering an unspoken question.

Dean’s stomach lurched. “You are?”

“Yes.” Castiel closed his eyes while the sun continued to transform his skin, turning it amber yellow. Dean held his breath, remembering that day in the bunker when Castiel, newly released from his metal bonds and still confused, had stood under the skylight in an attempt to feel the sun’s warmth. This was like looking at another man entirely. Dean could sense that Castiel was different; he could almost feel the power returning to him, and for a moment he almost felt like crying. 

“What happened?” he asked, after getting himself under control again.

Castiel opened his eyes again, still staring at the sky. “Time. You were right, Dean. I needed time. You gave me what I needed; the space to recover. And just now... I don’t know why it happened now, what triggered it... But everything _clicked_ again.”

Dean shook his head, bemused. “What, so it’s like someone just threw a switch and now you’re back to how you were?”

“I don’t really know – I just feel different,” Castiel said, the words hesitant. “I feel whole. I feel as though that empty space inside me has gone.”

Dean grinned, his heart lifting. “That’s amazing, Cas.”

“I remember it all,” Castiel continued, sounding wistful. “I remember the demons and everything they did. I remember all their faces, how they felt, how they smelled, how they tasted. But they don’t matter anymore.” He turned to gaze at Dean. “I was created so long ago and my entire existence was emotionless, meaningless. And then I met you. You changed it all; you and your brother, but mostly you, Dean. You are everything to me. I understand it now and I didn’t before. The demons were there for a while, but now they’re gone, all of them. But you’re still here. You’re still here for me, Dean.”

Dean looked deep into his eyes. They shone bright blue in the winter sunlight, radiating both sadness and joy. 

“Where else would I be?” he said.

Castiel smiled. “Dean,” he said fondly, and that was all the urging Dean needed. 

He dropped his bags and yanked the flare gun from his shoulder, throwing it onto the grass. Then he surged forward, placing his hands on Castiel’s cheeks and pulling him into a passionate kiss. 

He couldn’t help himself – it was impossible to hold back: it felt like a primal force had taken hold of him, like his whole life had been leading towards it, and there wasn’t an ounce of his body that wanted to resist. 

Castiel kissed him in return, moaning between his lips, his hands pulling Dean closer. A palm settled on the back of his head and held him still while his tongue delved deep into Dean’s mouth, exploring, tasting, and Dean moaned too as he sucked on it, helpless. He felt stubble against his chin and ran his fingers over it, enjoying how rough it was – how _masculine_ – and then Castiel’s hand was on one buttock, pressing him close, and he could feel that the angel was rock-hard against him. 

Dean’s cock hadn’t even got the message that anything was happening yet, and he couldn’t help but be impressed as he broke off their kiss, panting slightly. But then he forgot about it as they stood with their foreheads pressed together, staring into each other’s eyes, each of them bathed in a golden glow from the sunset.

“I guess it’s finally the right time to do this,” Dean observed, one hand stroking Castiel’s neck.

“Are you sure?” 

“This is _you_ again, isn’t it?”

Castiel kissed him gently. “Yes,” he said.

“Then I’m sure.”

Castiel closed his eyes; Dean sensed him tensing up under his hands and frowned. “Hey, what is it? We don’t have to if you don’t think you’re ready.”

“I never fucked anyone,” Castiel said suddenly. 

Dean straightened in alarm. “What?”

“All that time, they just fucked _me_ ,” Castiel told him, sounding quietly furious. “I never did it to them, they wouldn’t let me. I wasn’t allowed, even with the women who were there. It gave me too much power. I never fucked anyone, not once. Then I tried to fuck you in that alley but I couldn’t, it was wrong, I wasn’t allowed to do that, and you – you didn’t want it, it was rape, I understand that. I’m sorry, Dean, I’m so sorry I did that.”

“It’s already forgotten. Don’t think about it.”

Castiel looked up at him, his eyes wide and pleading. “But now... everything is different... now I want... I need–”

Dean knew exactly what he was about to say. He grabbed him by the back of the neck and yanked him to his mouth, kissing him hard, silencing him. Then he leaned back and said roughly, “Fuck me, Cas. I want you to fuck me. Do it now.”

Castiel shuddered under his palm. “Are you sure?”

“I want you inside me. It’s your turn, and I’m ready. Let’s do this.” 

Dean didn’t even know where the words came from, but they felt right. He wanted Castiel inside him more than he wanted anything else in the world right now, and to punctuate the words he tore off his coat and undid his belt. Castiel watched him with wide, lust-filled eyes, panting hard, and Dean decided that he needed to be totally naked as soon as possible, freezing air be damned, because he needed to know how it felt to have Castiel against his flesh without any spells or manacles or drugs or consent issues at all. 

They’d been through so much, Castiel had suffered _so much_ , but now he could have this. He could have Dean.

The next thing he knew, he was naked on the grass and Castiel was on top of him. To Dean’s surprise he couldn’t even feel how cold the air and ground were; there was just the heat coming off Castiel, furnace-hot and addictive: he couldn’t get enough of it, he couldn’t get enough of _him_. He kissed skin wherever he could reach it, not giving a damn about technique or appearance or anything except being close to this mercurial, powerful creature lying with him; he licked Castiel’s neck, his nipples, his ears, his goddamn armpits: he didn’t care where, he just needed to worship him. In return Castiel groaned and panted, sliding against him, so fucking hot that Dean felt he was burning, until finally he felt his legs being pulled apart and Castiel stared down at him with a determined, fearsome expression that made Dean’s cock harder than he thought he could cope with. 

“Do it,” he hissed in answer to the unspoken question, bracing himself, and Castiel was inside him a heartbeat later without any kind of lubrication whatsoever, seemingly oblivious to the niceties of anal sex despite his long history of being its unwilling recipient. It felt weird, intrusive, bizarre – and it hurt, not as much as in the alley, but it still hurt, and Dean bit off a cry until, just a few thrusts later, he felt waves of pleasure from what he assumed was his prostate, not that he’d even given that weird thing inside him more than a second thought in his entire life. 

He growled, twisting a little and bending his knees, and Castiel made a sharp keening sound as he angled himself deeper and deeper, working up a rhythm that made Dean’s cock almost painfully hard between them despite his discomfort. 

“Dean,” Castiel gasped, and he pumped so powerfully that Dean actually yelled, a ridiculous, pornographic howl that a small voice in his head told him not to do again in case it carried somehow to Sam and Carlos waiting for him at the car. But then Castiel did it again and Dean howled again, and it happened over and over until Dean found himself gasping Castiel’s name instead, trying to control himself but not wanting to – because how often did he lose himself like this? He’d never felt like this before, not ever, and he didn’t even care about the pain because it was _Castiel_. And now Castiel was saying _Dean_ over and over himself, staring down into his eyes and kissing him forcefully until his lips felt bruised and battered, but Dean adored it, adored all of it, adored the hot, agonizing burn of him inside his body and the way his own cock was rubbing on Castiel’s abdomen and the way Castiel was shuddering, the way he was jerking against him, the way his buttocks were clenching under Dean’s palms as he pulled him closer, trying to get him even further inside his body even though it was impossible without Castiel actually leaving his host and moving inside him – and suddenly Dean wanted that, he wanted to feel _Castiel_ inside his body as a whole, but that wasn’t going to happen and he knew it, and anyway none of it mattered because he was going to come and suddenly he did, he _came,_ he came so powerfully that he could think of nothing else except that he was feeling pure, molten joy.

The moment he rode back down the other side he realized that Castiel had felt it too because he was sobbing against him, still fucking him for all he was worth, and Dean moved trembling hands up his body so that he could cup his face and stare into his eyes. 

“I’m yours,” he said without thinking, kissing the tears from Castiel’s cheeks, and a few moments later he felt hot, wet fire inside him and Castiel gave a harsh, desperate cry. His eyes glowed cold-blue for a few, terrifying seconds until he collapsed on top of Dean and lay still, panting hard, his whole body quivering.

They lay that way until darkness overtook the meadow. 

 

* * *

 

Finally, Dean was cold. 

Castiel still lay over him, his head on Dean’s chest, but even he wasn’t enough to warm him now. Reality came back in a rush: Dean was freezing; there were twigs painfully sticking into his back; his lips were bruised and sore – and his ass felt, well, like something had pounded into it for ten minutes without stopping. He tried to move but it hurt, so he stopped, panting, and then felt his body shiver from the chilly night air.

“Ah, Cas,” he muttered, stroking his back. “I’m kind of uncomfortable here.”

Castiel took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling against Dean’s own. Then he sat up, his eyes shining in the moonlight, and placed a hand on Dean’s cheek.

Instantly, Dean felt better: a wave of healing heat swept through him and he sighed, content. Thank God – literally – for angels and their healing powers.

“Thanks,” he said, and reached for his pants. 

Castiel stood and collected his own clothes. The two men dressed quietly, listening to the evening birds calling through the night, and then they were done. Dean came to stand in front of Castiel and adjusted one of his shirt buttons for him, not that he could see it that well in the dim light anyway. “Here,” he said, unfolding the shirt’s collar while he was there.

Castiel looked down at his hands and then back up at him. “How do you feel?” he asked.

Dean smiled. “Don’t I usually ask you that? I’m doing great, Cas. How are you?”

Castiel nodded. “I am... feeling better,” he said, sounding surprised.

Dean stroked his cheek. “This is _us_ now, you know. No more issues. We’re together. We can do that whenever we want. Everything bad is behind us. It’s all good.”

“I need you to destroy those recordings,” Castiel said.

Dean froze, taken aback at the abrupt change of subject. “What?”

“All of them. Destroy the hard drive.”

Dean considered it, then nodded uneasily. “Of course.”

“And there will be no revenge against the demons. You said you’d made a list. I want you to destroy that too.”

“They shouldn’t get away with what they did, Cas!”

“I don’t care.” Castiel took Dean’s hand and moved it away from his cheek, squeezing it. “There will be no more revenge. I want it forgotten. All of it. That isn’t my life now.”

Dean paused, thinking hard, then realized it wasn’t his battle to fight, anyway. “You got it.”

Castiel’s shoulders slumped. “Good.” He turned away, looking up at the moon. “The angels are talking about me.”

Dean felt as though he was getting whiplash from this conversation. “What? What are they saying?”

“They felt me change. They know I’m healed now. A few are asking me to return to Heaven.”

Dean swallowed, suddenly nervous. “What are you going to do?”

Castiel turned to him. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, and their lips met again.

They stood kissing under the moon for what seemed like a long time, and then Dean, full of regret, had to pull away. “Sam will be worried. We should go.”

“Will you tell him about us?”

Dean snorted. “He’s my brother, Cas. He’s gonna figure it out the minute he sees us.”

Castiel tilted his head. “How?”

Dean picked up his bag and turned to throw him a wry grin.

“Because we’re happy,” he said.

 

 

 

~ ~ ~


End file.
